


A Night at the Oasis

by Skullharvester



Series: Current WIPs [1]
Category: Baldur's Gate, Dungeons & Dragons - All Media Types, baldur's gate 3
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Evil-Alignment Story, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-20
Updated: 2021-02-17
Packaged: 2021-03-18 20:13:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 26,468
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28872879
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skullharvester/pseuds/Skullharvester
Summary: Astarion is forced to accompany his master, Cazador Szarr, to view an opera shown at the renowned theater in Little Calimshan on the outskirts of Baldur's Gate.  By the end of it, he wishes that he would have stayed home and taken the beating for rejecting the offer instead.
Relationships: Cazador (Baldur's Gate)/Original Male Character(s)
Series: Current WIPs [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2120226
Comments: 16
Kudos: 26





	1. A Night at the Oasis

**Author's Note:**

> If you've read my previous takes on this ship, this may be my "canon" rendition of the Cazador/Dobrogost ship and its origins, at least until the full game's release more than likely forces me to change things up.
> 
> Enjoy and have fun!
> 
> If you liked this tale, please drop me a kudos and/or a comment to let me know if you'd like to see more!
> 
> Thank you, and have a wonderful night!

* * *

* * *

Getting tickets to see the latest spectacle at the Oasis theater in Little Calimshan could often be a difficult and expensive endeavor, but somehow, Cazador Szarr managed to work out a deal with Jonas Goodnight, the theater’s owner, in which he could pay to reserve a private box all year-round. It must have been one of the perks of being a wealthy and charismatic vampire lord—not that Mr. Goodnight was _aware_ of the whole “vampire” bit.

Jonas didn’t ask many questions about Cazador’s private life, other than the occasional inquiry about how his latest book of poetry was coming along, followed by the unintentionally awkward: “And what about the family? How are they doing?”, which was always met with a bitter: “As well as they can be, all things considered…”

It was probably for the best that Mr. Goodnight wasn’t particularly personable with Lord Szarr and was simply happy to accept his generous amounts of coin every year. After all, nosey people who associated with the enigmatic nobleman weren’t very long-lived.

Astarion, a vampire spawn of Cazador’s, who was typically introduced to the public as his personal servant (slave, more like, but that title would have gotten a lot more frowns), dragged his feet behind his lord as they made their way to their seats in the private box looming high above the auditorium. He _dreaded_ being made to come and see these shows, but it was preferable to being flayed if he rejected the “privilege” to accompany Cazador when the offer was extended.

“Master, are you _sure_ you wouldn’t rather do something else for tonight?” Astarion asked hopefully. “It’s a pleasant evening out tonight. We could go to the park, and—”

Cazador grabbed the pale elf by the neck and forced him to sit in the chair beside his own, then took a seat himself.

“I’ve already missed the last showing because of you, boy. It won’t happen again,” said the lord firmly, peering down at the amassing crowd below as the other attendees made themselves comfortable.

He was trying to see if anyone in the audience caught his eye. The operas tended to drag on for a long time, so he was sure that he’d be thirsty by the time it was over with. 

Aware of his intent, Astarion sighed, knowing that he would be the one sent to track down whomever Cazador might have decided to be his next meal; he _always_ had to do all the hard work. Ironic, given that the name “Cazador” meant “hunter”, yet the vampire lord hardly did any of his own hunting these nights.

Cazador gestured to a young nobleman dressed in a muted purple suit, with a wide-brimmed hat adorned with a couple of feathers. “What do you think about that one?”

He stroked his mustache between his finger and his thumb thoughtfully, awaiting Astarion’s answer. It wasn’t often that he sought his unruly spawn’s advice on matters, but it boosted Astarion’s wounded ego a tiny bit when he would.

Leaning forward in his chair, the elf tried to get a better look at the young man from this distance. “Hm… Well, he _could_ be a virgin. You’ve always told me that their blood tastes the sweetest, yes?” 

Astarion was sad to realize that he’d never know, as he wasn’t permitted to feed from thinking creatures himself, and his displeasure showed in the frown that marred his face suddenly. He shook the expression off his face and continued his analysis. 

“But, I think that the woman he’s with could be his lover.”

Cazador squinted, focusing on the woman now. “She looks old enough to be his mother.”

Astarion grinned wolfishly at his master. “And?”

Twitching his mouth irritably and taking some personal offense at the quip, Cazador hummed. He was hardly a spring chicken himself anymore. “Point taken…”

The two spent the rest of their time waiting for the show to begin by continuing in their search for the most delectable specimen to take home for dinner, and as soon as the curtain parted, their attention shifted towards it.

“Oh.” Astarion uttered, rubbing his face. “ _Now_ I see why you wanted to come to this show so badly…”

“What do you mean?” Cazador snapped in a quiet voice.

“The tiefling’s in this one,” Astarion explained. “You _always_ want to see the tiefling.”

The typically well-spoken lord tripped over his tongue for a moment, then said: “He’s an amazing singer, and I rather enjoy his performances as well.”

His spawn groaned, conjuring the strength to peel his hand from his face and look back to the actors on stage. “He’s _always_ playing as a cambion.”

“Not always.”

“Well, he’s always the villain, at any rate.”

“Now _that_ I will grant you…”

“I’m surprised the tiefling population of Baldur’s Gate hasn’t ripped his tongue out. I don’t imagine this casts them in a particularly good light in front of the public.”

Once again, Cazador held the scruff of his servant’s neck and pulled him close to whisper: “If you don’t be silent this instant, I’ll rip out _your_ tongue. Understand?”

Astarion didn’t have it in him to smile anymore. There were some fleeting moments in which he could be himself in front of his master—he thought he could, anyway—but it was incidents like this that reminded him of his place at the cruel man’s feet. Cazador only permitted Astarion the illusion of having free will when it suited him, just so that he could snatch it away when he grew tired of his spawn’s cheeky ways. It wasn’t fair…

“Y-Yes, master. Of course.”

The elf swallowed, gripping the arms of his chair as he kept his eyes on the actors; it was his best excuse for pretending that Cazador was no longer there with him. Maybe if he were fortunate, he could, for once, get sucked into watching the performance this time and allow himself to forget the reality he truly lived in for a little while.

Cazador wasn’t wrong about the tiefling’s voice when it finally came time for him to sing; it was a smooth and resonating bass-baritone that was perfect for all the drama of a cambion striking a deal with a distraught and desperate mortal. The delivery of the acting, however, was atrociously hammy, in Astarion’s opinion. 

This was the first time Astarion ever paid much attention to the show; he never cared for opera, and typically he would tune it all out, disappearing into idle thoughts with a vacant expression on his face the entire time. It wasn’t often he could be alone in his thoughts, without Cazador invading them.

The “cambion” was nearly eight feet tall—presumably, that was his natural height—and a rotund, yet burly man with a long scraggly beard and dark brown hair that grew around his curved horns, creating a widow’s peak upon his forehead, and came down past his shoulders. His skin was a pale pink color, and the reddish tattoos on his face might make someone look twice to make sure they weren’t looking directly at the muscles beneath the flesh. Though the outside of his eyes were as black as pitch, his irises were a striking white color with bright red rings around the pupils that glowed in the dim lighting that suited the somber scene.

If it weren’t for the fact that it was vaguely noticeable that the wings attached to his back were fake prosthetics (Mr. Goodnight’s budget must have been getting strained as of late), one really could have mistaken him for being a true cambion.

The husky tiefling actor strutted around the young lovelorn woman, who pretended to be on the verge of fainting as he sang to her his proposed bargain—what he would ask in exchange for making the man that she adored fall in love with her in turn. Astarion couldn’t understand a word of it; he was only picking up on the gist of the scenario through the visual cues and the context alone.

“What language is he supposed to be singing in?” Astarion whispered to Cazador, reluctant to stoke his master’s ire, yet also finding himself too sincerely intrigued not to ask.

Cazador shut his eyes briefly and sighed. “It’s Infernal—the tongue of devilkin.”

The answer lingered on Astarion’s mind for a little while longer as he continued to observe this part of the act. “It’s…strangely beautiful.”

A rare, yet small, smile graced his master’s lips. “It is, isn’t it?”

Astarion’s eyes widened slightly when the cambion gripped the actress by her wrist, jerking her to her feet. The cry of pain she let out sounded too genuine, and she stumbled around as the devil tugged her into a dance. The actor laughed heartily, but the woman continued to shriek in terror while she was lifted from her feet, thrown into the air, and spun around on her toes when she landed again. By the time that the dance was over with, once the process of mishandling her was repeated several times over, she was horribly dizzy, vomited, and collapsed to the floor. 

The cambion turned towards the surprised audience, and he bowed with a proud grin on his face. The curtain closed once more as the act concluded and an intermission was announced by Jonas Goodnight himself, who skipped in front of the curtain in a hurry to make this spontaneous declaration.

Was this _always_ how these showings went?

Cazador took notice of the shock on his spawn’s face and beamed, fangs glimmering in the low lighting as he rose from his padded seat. “Beastly, isn’t he? I take it you’ve never actually _watched_ him perform, have you? Don’t answer; I already know that you spend more time staring at your shoes.” He scoffed. “You never _did_ have much of an appreciation for the arts…”

Astarion frowned at his lord’s disapproval, but he observed curiously as Cazador fished through his coat pocket and retrieved a wax-sealed letter.

“Here,” Cazador said, handing it to him. “I want you to go and give him this. I imagine he’ll be headed for his dressing room right about now. Hurry. I want you to be back before the intermission is over with. And don’t even _think_ about trying to sneak off.”

The vampire spawn turned the envelope in his hands, wondering about its contents. He couldn’t help but let a devious smirk tug at the corners of his mouth. “It’s not a _love_ letter, is it?” he teased.

Cazador gave him a dark glare. “If you open that letter once you’re out of my sight, I’ll break your fingers one-by-one myself when we return home. I’ll know if you’ve so much as peeked at it. Keep that in mind as well.”

Because of the reaction, Astarion assumed the answer was a yes. He could have been wrong, but he liked to imagine he was correct; it entertained him to think that his callous master might have had a secret sweetheart somewhere here in Baldur’s Gate. How revolting.

“I wouldn’t _dream_ of it,” Astarion swore, tucking the letter away for safekeeping. “What’s his name, anyhow?”

“Dobrogost Bludov.”

Astarion pondered the meaning of the name, tapping his chin. “So, he’s a “good guest” _and_ a “pervert”? Interesting name…”

“I didn’t _ask_ for your commentary, boy,” the lord hissed. “Now go!”

Honestly, Astarion was glad for his master’s eagerness to dismiss him. He needed time away from the despicable man every now and again; the more, the better.

* * *

The only thing worse than having to accompany Cazador on the odd nighttime outings was having to be his errand boy during them, but on the bright side, it was one of the few occasions in which Astarion was permitted to leave his side for a short while. It was pleasant to have a temporary reprieve from the lord’s unpredictable moods and uncomfortable presence.

It was awkward pushing past fellow nobles (sometimes, Astarion forgot he ever belonged to the nobility, after serving Cazador for so long) and commoners alike on the way down the stairs and through the auditorium to get to the other end of the building. The dressing rooms clearly weren’t accessible on the side his lord’s private box was located, so they must be elsewhere.

Astarion ignored the grumbles of disapproval about his rudeness, adamant about doing his master’s bidding with the haste that was demanded of him, and his assumption was proven correct: He eventually found the general area he was looking for, and upon entering, attempted to blend in with the weary stagehands that ambled by.

On the way through, something occurred to him that probably shouldn’t have even crossed his mind, since it was none of his business: Was the woman who was on stage alright? He wasn’t sure why, but he was compelled to find out, and took a quick detour.

She was just coming down the small set of stairs leading off the stage when the vampiric elf had to catch her from falling due to her nausea. Her head lifted, blonde hair parting to reveal a face that was even more lovely up-close than it had appeared from far away. The half-elven woman had to be in her early twenties. Even when sick and faint, she was almost flawless with her innocent hazel eyes and adorable freckled skin.

“Thank you,” she croaked, leaning on Astarion for support as he helped her the rest of the way down the stairs. “That man—the tiefling—he’s such a brute… I knew he was trouble the moment I laid eyes on him, but Mr. Goodnight insisted that I _must_ sing with him. My career hasn’t even started, and I think it’s already over with because of him…”

She started to cry into Astarion’s doublet, unable to hold back her embarrassment.

It was no wonder to Astarion why Cazador took such a deep interest in this Dobrogost; he must have seen a piece of himself in the tiefling, and Cazador was a complete narcissist who loved to see some semblance of his own visage where mirrors now failed him. The thought of there being _another_ soul as wicked as his master’s in this city sickened Astarion to the core, but he tried to keep his uneasiness a secret for the woman’s sake.

“There, there,” Astarion said half-heartedly while patting her on the shoulder, allowing her to direct him towards her dressing room so that she could get herself cleaned up for the second half of the opera. “I’m sure everyone thought what happened was all part of the show. If anyone asks you, insist that it was, and you’ll be praised for your acting skill.”

She dried her eyes, peering up at him bashfully. “You really think so?”

He nodded. “Darling, I fancy myself a dabbling actor as well.” It wasn’t a lie; he always had to play pretend to keep himself going as Cazador’s slave. “People will believe _anything_ you tell them, if you say it with enough confidence.”

The young actress thought about this for a while, then seemed to concede that his advice had some merit to it. “True enough. That’s why I wanted to act in the first place; the shows here are so convincing that I told myself I had to be a part of at least some of them.” Her eyes turned away from his face, staring off into the distance of the hallway wistfully. “Ordinary life gets so tiresome that sometimes you just want to escape elsewhere for a little while, you know? To make believe that the world is different than it really is.”

Astarion’s brow wrinkled empathetically. “You’ve no idea just how much that notion resonates with me, my dear. No idea at all.”

She chuckled a little and pointed at the door of her dressing room when they found it. Astarion opened it for her and lowered her into the chair in front of her vanity mirror inside, like a gentleman. The half-elven woman blinked when she peered into the mirror to comb her fingers through her long hair, only to realize she didn’t see Astarion next to her. But by the time she glanced over at the elf, he went to stand on the far side of the room, where it made more sense that she couldn’t behold him in the reflection. Her worry dissipated, but she was amused by how suddenly shy he’d become.

“You’re very kind, sir,” she said, folding her hands in her lap.

He grinned, but not too wide; he didn’t want her to see his sharp teeth. “I don’t know about that…”

Her smile widened. “Of course you are! What’s your name, anyway?”

He bowed with a flourish. “Astarion.”

Her heart fluttered. “What a handsome name.”

“And yours?” he asked.

“Delilah Moonsong.”

“Beautiful.”

Pink tinted her cheeks. “That’s sweet of you to say…”

She turned back towards the mirror, picking up her fine comb to straighten her frazzled hair back to the perfect state it was in prior to being mistreated by the tiefling.

Why did monsters take such delight in upsetting creatures so pure? Though Astarion wondered this, it didn’t escape him that _he_ was now one such monster, but he had to believe he was somehow different from others.

“I have to get changed now,” the woman informed him, her blush deepening. “Might I have some privacy, please? If you’d like, we can speak again once the show is over with. I know I would like that very much…”

“Surely, darling.” Astarion turned on his heel, and was headed for the door, but he hesitated before crossing the threshold. “…This might be a little forward of me to ask, but by chance, do you happen to have a suitor?”

The unexpected question made her next breath catch in her throat. “N-No,” she stammered. “Never. I…I’ve never had one.”

“Not once?” Astarion’s smile became slightly more devilish in nature as he gazed over his shoulder, only to see her shake her head no. “I see…”

Without explaining the reasoning for his inquiry, he left and shut the door behind himself, remembering that he had yet to deliver the letter. He hardly wanted to be whipped by Cazador for tarrying.

He merely needed to follow the muffled argumentative voices that boomed behind a shut door to find Dobrogost’s dressing room. The singer was much louder than the theater owner, no doubt because his voice _had_ to carry further for the sake of his job.

Astarion pressed his long, pointed ear against the closed door.

“Dobrogost, you can’t keep manhandling my new talent just because it suits you,” said the voice of Jonas Goodnight, though his anxious tone implied that he was struggling to stand his ground in this matter.

“She’s a terrible actress, and a worse singer,” the tiefling argued. “I had to do _something_ to make her a little more captivating to the audience! You can’t simply pick performers based on their looks alone.”

“Well, no offense, Lord Bludov, but if they all looked like you, the public would be too terrified to come and see the shows anymore!”

There was an astonished laugh from the actor. “I consider myself to be ruggedly handsome, and I’m not the only one who thinks this, I’ll have you know!”

“You keep saying that, but I’ve yet to find anyone else who agrees…”

“Mr. Goodnight, how dare you!” Though the tiefling’s words were accusatory, they had a mirthful air to them. “And here I thought that there might be something between us.”

“Dobrogost, please, take what I have to say _seriously_ for once. I’m tired of all these games. I’m just trying to run a business here, and it’s complicated enough without you feeling the compulsion to—”

“I grow bored of this conversation.” The tiefling’s tone was abruptly serious and firm. Foreboding, even. “Leave me.”

Jonas sighed exasperatedly. “Fine. We’ll talk about this _after_ the show.”

Astarion scrambled to hide when he heard the handle of the door turn, then waited for the theater owner to leave before slipping into the dressing room himself.

Dobrogost, still wearing the giant, gaudy cambion wings, must have assumed Jonas had forgotten something, since he was glaring at first when he acknowledged the intruder. The moment he realized it was someone else entirely, albeit a stranger, his expression changed swiftly, shifting to a good-natured grin. 

“Ah, and who might this be? Are you one of the new attendants? I could use a bit of help with changing outfits. It’s these damned wings, you see…”

“My apologies.” Astarion bent at the waist with his hand to his breast, then straightened his back again. “I don’t work here, I’m afraid. Rather, I’ve come to deliver you a letter from my lord. He’s a fan of yours, I believe.”

“A fan?” The tiefling pulled on his beard contemplatively as he approached the elf, accepting the letter that was offered to him when Astarion withdrew it from its hiding place in his pocket. “I don’t have many of those these days. Let me see…”

Astarion watched as the actor’s sharp claws sliced open the wax seal in an instant, and the bright white eyes scanned through the letter—the smile on the tiefling’s imposing face growing wider as he read.

“Hm…” Dobrogost chuckled, folding the letter back up and fanning his face with it as soon as he finished looking it over. He was grinning ear-to-ear when he directed his attention back to Astarion, and his forked tail wagged excitedly behind him, much like a dog’s might. “Tell your lord that I greatly appreciate his _deep_ admiration, whomever he may be.”

That last part raised Astarion’s eyebrow. He wasn’t aware that Cazador had addressed the message anonymously. He supposed it made sense; Cazador _loved_ playing games of all kinds.

“I shall,” Astarion agreed, bowing his head in a courtly manner. “What…did the letter say, if I might be so bold?”

Dobrogost’s needle-like teeth were on display—a trait common in his species, unlike Astarion’s—when the question came up. “It actually said at the bottom not to tell you if you asked me that.”

Astarion frowned disappointedly. “Ah. Fair enough.”

“Though, I might be willing to ignore that piece if you reveal the name of my secret admirer,” the tiefling mentioned, apparently still playing the part of the cambion even off-stage. A lover of games himself, so it seemed.

But that wasn’t going to happen. If Astarion agreed to such a trade and Cazador found out, he would have the elf tortured for the next several months at minimum.

“I’m afraid I cannot, good sir. I hope you understand.”

“Very well.” The tiefling sighed and showed the elf his back, indicating that they were through talking. He waved a hand dismissively, just in case Astarion didn’t fully get the picture. “I take it that your master is in the audience somewhere, and that you will be attending him. I shall simply look for your face and express my mutual appreciation from afar.”

“I don’t think he would mind that,” said Astarion. He certainly _hoped_ that was the case. “At any rate, sir, I will let you go back to getting ready for the next act. Go break a leg, and all that.”

“Oh, I most certainly will. You needn’t worry about that.”

When Astarion exited the room, he permitted himself to shudder until he felt thoroughly cleansed of the tiefling’s ominous presence and his sulfurous odor that was poorly disguised by overpowering cologne. The only thing he looked forward to now was for the show to be over with. He wanted to see the young woman again.

* * *

“Did you give him the letter? What did he say?”

Astarion was surprised by his master’s enthusiasm. Cazador was so eager to know the tiefling’s response that his fingernails were scarring the lacquered wood on the arms of his chair. Astarion truly didn’t imagine that the cruel vampire lord cared about, well, anything. Not sincerely, in any case.

“He’s going to admire you from afar,” the elf answered, resisting the urge to roll his eyes as he recounted Dobrogost’s words.

This intrigued his master. “Is he, now?” 

Cazador smiled and leaned against his seat’s backrest, crossing his legs. He seemed curious about how the man was going to manage that, exactly. Astarion admittedly wanted to know, too.

Once the intermission was over with, the curtain opened, and the actors and actresses were prancing about on stage again, singing the melody that portrayed the new scene. 

Most of the other half of the show was what could be expected of a love story: All goes well for a while when the lovers have what they want, and to Astarion, that part was very boring, but his interest was caught again during the final act, where chaos broke loose.

The cambion had returned to reveal that, as part of the bargain, _he_ was the one to wed the woman who struck the deal with him, not her beloved. Astarion cringed and squirmed in his seat uncomfortably when Dobrogost squeezed the female actress by her slender waist—painfully tight—as he dragged her away from the arms of her lover that she reached for and desperately cried out to for help.

The actor who played the woman’s lover managed to wrench her away in a struggle that seemed all too real, then once the woman was safe to run to the protective arms of her cowering family, he drew his rapier from the holster on his belt. Likewise, the cambion reached for a massive greatsword that was dwarfed by his large frame—making it look more like a longsword in his hand—and their blades clashed in an intense moment that left Astarion on the edge of his seat.

As the swords dueled, so did the voices of the two men as they attempted to sing over one another. Of course, the cambion’s voice was the loudest, as the other actor was more of a tenor.

In a flash of movement, the hero of the story was impaled upon the greatsword, and blood gushed from his chest as he was lifted high into the air upon the weapon. His face was contorted in shock, and more of the red liquid spilled from his lips. Judging from how utterly silent the other performers went—they were a sea of mouths agape in terror—it couldn’t have been fake. The audience, even less clued in on what was intended, couldn’t come to a consistent agreement on how to react, either.

Yet, the cambion continued serenading all with his mournful song, and his gaze turned upwards towards Cazador’s private box, looking Astarion’s master straight in the eye as he bellowed the tune. Cazador must have approved considerably because, if Astarion wasn’t mistaken, he was apparently swooning a little and even pressed his hand to his lips, blowing the actor a kiss.

The “cambion” made a gesture of “catching” the kiss midair with one hand while the other still held the slain hero upon his sword with ease.

Astarion’s gaze shifted to the half-elven woman, and he saw that she was sobbing her eyes out—wailing at the top of her lungs at the horrific spectacle of a man, whom she must have been close to out-of-character, being murdered before her—while being comforted by her peers that held onto her shoulders and waved their hands in her face, preventing her from passing out.

Dobrogost bowed once more while the curtain was hastily closed, and the audience reluctantly, awkwardly applauded the show. When people were mortified, they’d do anything to lie to themselves and say that none of it was real, even when their gut told them otherwise.

Astarion shifted in his chair towards Cazador and blurted out: “I-I’ll be right back, master. Everyone seems to be in a hurry to leave, so I know I won’t have much time to catch your nightly meal before it absconds. Pardon me!”

For once, Cazador didn’t argue when his slave dashed off. He knew it wasn’t out of a sense of duty that Astarion went so quickly, but the elf was admittedly right. He _was_ curious as to the real reason why he was so impatient, however, and pursued his vampire spawn to the bottom floor. He soon found Astarion accompanying the shaken young actress.

“Are you alright?”

Those were the words Cazador walked in on, as well as the visual of his slave cradling the woman in his arms when she was the only one left on stage once everyone else had apparently fled in terror. A pity, as he’d hoped to encounter the tiefling here by chance. Perhaps next time. Cazador could be a patient man when he wished to be.

Astarion gasped in alarm when he was found by Cazador. “Master, I was just—”

“You needn’t explain, dear boy,” the lord murmured, glancing over the woman with approval as he came near, crouching down beside her to brush a lock of hair behind her stubby tapered ear. “You must be new to theater, I presume. I understand. Fame, even in its early hours, can be a _very_ overwhelming thing.”

Doe-eyed, the actress clung tighter to Astarion’s doublet, nearly ripping the threads. Somehow, she instinctively knew to be wary of his master, just as she knew to be cautious of the tiefling. She nodded her head and wiped away her tears, if only to satisfy the intimidating lord.

Cazador smiled in that way he often did when those that he felt were beneath him accepted his superiority over them. “You should join Astarion and I back at my manor for dinner. I can tell that the both of you must have befriended each other. Any friend of his is a friend of mine.”

_Don’t say yes_ , Astarion prayed, but he knew that wouldn’t be her answer.

“A-Alright, I don’t see why not. It’s very polite of you to offer,” she said meekly. “Anything to be away from here…”

_Gods… Why? Why did she have to say yes?_

Astarion was already mourning her loss, even as he held her in his arms, and he could still feel her pulse. 

Could nothing beautiful endure in a world with people like Cazador in it? Probably not… People like him would always cause such specimens to wither and die in his iron-fisted clutch. That was simply the way of the world, wasn’t it?

“Very good,” said Cazador, showing her the way out as Astarion helped her stand.

As they left, Astarion found himself listening in on a conversation taking place behind the stage that was barely audible, even to his keen elven ears.

“Dobrogost, look at what you’ve done now!”

Jonas Goodnight was having another dispute with the tiefling about the latest mishap.

“It was a stage accident!” Dobrogost cried defensively. “The prop was sharper than it was meant to be!”

“That wasn’t a prop, and you know it! I _told_ you that beforehand and to be _very_ careful with it, but as usual, you never listen!”

“Yes, but that’s what we’ll tell the public. Think of it this way, Mr. Goodnight: Now you won’t have to pay the man, not that you had the money to do so, anyway!” There was a wicked laugh from the tiefling.

“You can’t keep doing this sort of thing whenever you _feel_ like it! It’s going to ruin me and my business! I’ll be chased out of town with torches and pitchforks if I’m not locked up in a dungeon first!”

“Oh, my dear old friend, can’t you see that I’m helping you in your time of financial struggle?” Dobrogost’s voice was patronizing to his distressed employer. “After this tragedy, ticket sales will be up for some time, don’t you think?”

There was a defeated sigh from Jonas. “I just wish that your form of “help” wasn’t so risky and morbid…”

“Mr. Goodnight, since when do you oppose risk or morbidity?”

“I suppose you’re right… But damn you, Dobrogost; you’re a monster.”

The last thing Astarion heard before he was entirely out of earshot was another cackle from the tiefling.

Baldur’s Gate, it seemed, was the city of monsters. Astarion desperately wanted to leave it someday, but he knew deep in his heart that it would never happen. He’d always be a prisoner here. Everyone who resided in this city would forever be pressed under the thumbs of the monsters who pulled the strings. Once, he used to be equally as ignorant about who truly held the power around here.

One day they’d all learn. And by then, it’d be too late.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "In the land of gods and monsters, I was an angel livin' in the garden of evil. Screwed up, scared, doing anything that I needed, shinin' like a fiery beacon."
> 
> Recommended Listening: Gods & Monsters by Jessica Lange


	2. Unlife of the Party

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Astarion's beginning to feel that he'll truly miss the nights when he roamed the streets of Baldur's Gate perfectly alone, in which tagging along with his master was a rarity. Those nights are probably soon to be over with, as he's now being dragged with Cazador to dreadful parties for an entirely new form of depraved and unthinkable torture: Having to watch as his master woos the awful tiefling. Disgusting!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (I said I might do at least one more chapter, and I have delivered!
> 
> Enjoy and have fun, and please leave a comment and/or a kudos to let me know if you liked it if you have the time! :D )

* * *

* * *

In the passing weeks, Astarion never forgave Cazador for what became of Delilah Moonsong, but after being around his master’s brand of depravity for about two centuries, he learned to forget. 

It was both a great relief and an even greater sorrow how quickly Astarion could push these things out of his mind and move on each night. Sometimes he nearly missed being able to mourn properly when something awful had occurred. Now, he was very numb to it all, and the tender emotions were fleeting.

Surely, the party he was going to tonight would be a respite from his occasional guilt that ironically stemmed from his lax conscience. It was meant to be some fundraising affair on behalf of Jonas Goodnight, both to cover enough of his staggering debts to keep his shins from being broken by debt collectors, and to give him a budget to work with at all for this year’s performances at the theater he ran in Little Calimshan. There would be food served, music, dancing, and an auction at the end in which attendees could bid on old props and scripts that had been retired from usage.

When Astarion had heard that the event was suggested by Dobrogost Bludov, the unsavory tiefling actor who was employed by Mr. Goodnight at the Oasis theater, he wasn’t all too surprised since it seemed that Dobrogost was frequently whispering in the entrepreneur’s ear and coercing him into some scheme or another to keep the extravagantly-ran business afloat. 

What did strike him as odd, though, was the fact that the party was being hosted at some other noble’s estate, rather than Dobrogost’s own. Astarion asked the tiefling for the reason why when he first arrived, accompanying his master Cazador as per usual, but the opera singer merely waved a clawed hand at him and dismissively said: “I’m not really one for having guests over at my home. Few understand or appreciate my sense of style and décor.”

What on Toril did _that_ mean?

It didn’t really matter, Astarion supposed. It wasn’t unheard of for some nobility to be extremely picky and skittish about such a thing; several treated their homes like dragons treated the lairs that contained their beloved treasure hoards. 

Astarion was only glad to be invited into a manor other than Cazador’s for the first time in a while. He grew weary of the burned walls and molded floorboards of what was left of the Szarr family estate. Cazador apparently insisted that the damage done by his family’s killers be left alone, to serve as a reminder of a bitter past. Astarion wondered on occasion exactly how much that fateful night that happened so many years ago—long before he became Cazador’s slave—effected his master’s psyche, but Lord Szarr tended to get _very_ prickly about the subject. It wasn’t worth risking a beating to pry a word or two out of him about the incident.

Tonight’s party was the first time, possibly ever, that Astarion could recall his master being in a positive mood that wasn’t sparked by carving up the flesh of one of his servants or abusing them in some other over-the-top fashion.

_Was_ being the key word at play here. Cazador _was_ thrilled at first to join Lord Bludov on what could be considered a date, not that Cazador explicitly put it in those terms. (Astarion could read between the lines, not to mention that his master’s hands kept laying upon the tiefling’s muscular arm at every opportunity as a subconscious way of being possessive and showing off his new toy to everyone they encountered at the event.)

As the night grew older, however, annoying little things about the tiefling actor’s behavior were being accounted for by the persnickety vampire lord, adding up into a pile. Dobrogost was not as refined as Cazador, nor Astarion, presumed that he might be off-stage. He was actually kind of a pig, and he had all the tact of the nouveau riche, of which he evidently was part of. 

With his lineage having originated from Avernus, entering Toril in nothing to speak of after a daring escape from the Hells, Dobrogost wasn’t many generations removed from poverty and the trappings that came with it. Then again, he might have become the boorish man that he was now regardless of how far back his claim to nobility in this world stretched. 

Whatever the reasoning for his tasteless ways, he was making a bit of a fool of Astarion’s master, and it was obvious that Cazador was becoming increasingly embarrassed to be seen with the object of his long-term and secretive admiration. Astarion could end up learning to like this awful tiefling after all!

Cazador leaned into his suitor, who lowered his horned head to listen to his muttering. “If you’re going to belch every few minutes, you could at least cover your mouth—”

Dobrogost burped again, head bobbing from all the drink he’d consumed thus far. “Mmh?” He was too drunk for it to register what the request even was.

The vampire lord sighed heavily and covered his face with a hand as if he had a pulsing headache.

The tiefling turned back to the married couple they were engaged in less-than-polite conversation with, and the proud smirk returned to his alcohol-reddened face. “So, anyway, I thought that I missed my cue, and I ran on stage and started casting fireballs everywhere, as I was instructed to do by the script!”

The married noblewoman had to catch her portly middle-aged husband when he fainted in her arms once Dobrogost abruptly demonstrated without warning, searing the last tuft of hair the man had on his balding head and scorching a tapestry behind him.

Dobrogost clenched his sharp teeth. “Whoops…” He looked around for one of the servants, and he grabbed the shoulder of the first one to pass by with a tray in their hand. 

“You,” the tiefling actor gestured to the small fire crackling along the edge of the tapestry hanging on the wall. “Go and handle that. Throw some water on it or something before the hostess notices. And don’t you dare tell her a thing; I’m already on thin ice with your mistress enough as-is.”

So much for Dobrogost being a “good guest” anywhere. He couldn’t behave at the theater, and he was equally dreadful as a guest in someone’s home. His parents truly must have had a great sense of humor, or rather they were hopeful that their son wouldn’t turn out to be such a nuisance to everyone around him.

Panicking as soon as he saw the flame, the servant scrambled to extinguish it before it got out of control. Throwing wine from the tray on it made it worse, so he resorted to slapping at it helplessly with the nice cravat he pulled out from around his neck in desperation. Dobrogost cackled as he watched, but his fun was ended as soon as Cazador dragged him away to the dance floor, where hopefully no one else would notice what happened.

“Cazzy,” Dobrogost sulked, putting his hands on the shorter nobleman’s shoulder and waist as they joined in on the current dance to blend into the crowd. “Lighten up, would you? We’re here to have a good time.”

“My idea of a “good time” isn’t bringing shame and scandal to my name,” Lord Szarr hissed. “I already have enough drama going on in my household, and I don’t need _more_ , thank you.”

Though he was considerably smaller in stature than his hulking partner and could barely reach up high enough to grasp Dobrogost’s shoulder—instead, having to settle for gripping his upper arm—Cazador was the one who mostly lead their dance. Dobrogost had proven in the past on stage that he knew how to dance well, but the problem was that he was careless with whomever he did it with. Cazador wasn’t about to let himself be jerked around until his body ached and his head spun, so he fought to seize control right away.

Dobrogost was impressed and amused by the deceptively frail-looking man’s strength and ability to overpower him as they sauntered and spun about the dance floor, weaving between other partners that were engaged in the collective as the music played on. 

The tiefling, unsurprisingly, made an effort to bump other dancers out of their way when he backed into them. Cazador had to resist the entertained grin that threatened to manifest. That was _one_ of the man’s few rude mannerisms that he took a liking to; his shameless penchant for bullying those weaker than himself.

The actor bowed his head to whisper seductively into his dance partner’s long ear: “Cazador, I wish to kiss you.”

Now the vampiric lord couldn’t avoid smiling any longer. “That’s too bad, Lord Bludov. I’ve no interest in doing any such thing with you,” he murmured back, his cold breath blowing down the tiefling’s neck when he spoke.

There was a throaty chuckle from Dobrogost when he saw that there was a game being played here between the two of them. “Is that so? Your letters always suggested otherwise… In fact, they implied you wanted to do much more than that with me, which I would gladly indulge as well. You only need command it when the whim strikes you.”

Cazador brushed his lips past the man’s ear, humming as he mulled the proposal over. “My mind has decidedly changed since then.”

Dobrogost mirrored Lord Szarr’s teasing, tickling the vampire’s neck with his long beard when his lips caressed the delicate cartilage of his partner’s ear. “I don’t care,” he muttered eagerly, the hand on Cazador’s hip wandering lower. “I want you, and I shall have you.”

“I think not,” Cazador replied bluntly, withdrawing his face.

“Think whatever you will, Lord Szarr, but I promise that by the end of the night, you will be mine.”

As soon as Cazador’s backside was inevitably groped, the vampire’s expression suddenly darkened. “How brazen of you. I don’t believe you know who you’re speaking to like that.” 

Cazador allowed the pink hand that was on his shoulder to cup his bearded jaw and pull his face close for a kiss, but as their lips nearly met, he raised up his foot and stomped his heel as hard as he could into the toe of Dobrogost’s curled boot. The tiefling’s pupils shrank at the pain while he suppressed an anguished yelp.

Off in the distance, leaning against the wall near the buffet table with his arms folded, Astarion grinned wide when he caught a glimpse of the exchange.

“Sh-Shit, that was unnecessary,” Dobrogost wheezed, grimacing in agony. He imagined his foot must have been bleeding underneath the thick leather.

Cazador temporarily increased his height by standing on his tiptoes when he grumbled: “Don’t you _dare_ molest me without my permission.” With a sharp glare, he ripped Dobrogost’s hand off his backside, squeezing the offending wrist tightly to make his point clear.

It took a moment for Dobrogost to process what had transpired. He was shocked at first, then…excited? “Mmm… Lord Szarr, you’re the first who’s ever had the nerve to reject my advances in such a way. I like your spirit.”

Cazador dragged Dobrogost back down to his height by throwing his arms around the tiefling’s muscular neck and using his meager bodyweight to pull him. His fangs were out by the time his mouth was to his suitor’s ear again, but the actor remained totally oblivious to the fact that he was courting a vampire, even as the pointy teeth bit into the side of his ear.

“Oooh!” the tiefling cooed quietly, both of his thick arms slung around the shorter man’s waist to embrace him. “So cheeky. Come here, my sweet.”

Dobrogost returned the favor enthusiastically, and the two nibbled at each other in this way discreetly as they pretended to slip into the slow dance that the band played.

Still observing from afar, Astarion’s gut churned when he saw his master chuckle with sincere delight. He drowned the feeling with his wine, directing his eyes towards his chalice as if divining his bleak future in the red ripples there. It was certain that soon, he may have _two_ sadistic masters instead of one.

“I hate this… This is awful. I want to go home,” Astarion mumbled to himself, swirling the contents of his cup.

Finding comfort in the outlandish tiefling’s body warmth and resting his head against the man’s collarbone, Cazador licked the blood from his teeth and his lips, sighing contentedly. 

“Careful,” the vampire lord warned. “You don’t want to see me when I get _too_ excited by the taste of blood.”

His suitor grinned devilishly, running his fingers through Cazador’s smooth black hair, and kissing the top of his head. “But I think I _do_ , Lord Szarr. Heheh…”

Cazador peered up at him, arching an eyebrow with intrigue. “You really _are_ a fool, aren’t you?”

Dobrogost laughed, deciding that this was his opportunity to steal the lead of their dance. “For you, my love, most certainly.” A hand rubbed Cazador’s lower back affectionately. “Now keep nipping at my ears, and whisper dirty things to me, like what you wrote to me in your letter…”

Astarion couldn’t take it anymore. If he had to witness any more of this sickening courtship, he was going to retch all over the nice marble floor, and Cazador would probably force him to clean it up. Since he’d rather avoid that, he decided to go outside while his master was thoroughly distracted.

* * *

With the back door shut gently behind himself, Astarion made his way down the steps and onto the cobblestone where he was reminded that Dobrogost had also brought a servant of his own to the party. 

For some reason, the servant didn’t follow his respective lord inside and opted to stay out here, waiting for the party to be over with. Astarion didn’t blame him; he was only surprised that Dobrogost permitted that as an option. It made the elf wish that _he_ were so lucky when it came to personal freedoms.

Reluctantly, Astarion retraced his steps back up the stairs to approach the thin cloaked figure, who was smoking a lengthy pipe while observing the night sky. The infirm body shuddered like a leaf in the wind, and let out a harsh, rasping cough and a sickly sniffle. 

Though Astarion hadn’t seen anything but the man’s elongated, veiny hands thus far, he could tell the fellow servant was _ancient_. According to Dobrogost, he was a human, so he must have been at least in his eighties. Perhaps older than that.

The hood that covered the human’s head turned only slightly to acknowledge the elf’s sneaky presence. “Hmmm…? Ah, you’re Szarr’s servant boy—”

“Slave,” Astarion clarified.

“Right. Either way…” The old man covered his hidden mouth to let out another wheeze, then dumped the exhausted ashes from his pipe onto the cobblestone from his perch on the wide stone railing leading to the back door. His knobby knees drew closer to his unhealthily slim chest, and he rested his arms across them. “What are you doing out here? You should be attending your master.”

Astarion boldly put his hands on his hips. He almost came too close to the man, but something kept him away. It was the foul odor that radiated from him. It was worse than Dobrogost’s sulfuric scent, as if the elderly servant hadn’t bathed in an age. So, he understandably kept his distance by going a few steps back down.

“I could say the same about you. Aren’t you the right-hand servant of Lord Bludov?” Astarion asked.

“Aye,” was the curt retort. “I’m his majordomo, yes,” he added upon realizing that Astarion demanded more of an answer, and that the elf was going to keep glaring at him like that until he got one. He probably shouldn’t have humored Astarion since it only led to more badgering. 

So much for a peaceful night alone.

“What’s your name? I don’t recall hearing it.”

“Oleg.” Another dusty cough erupted from the old man. “You’re Astarion, right? Your master kept yelling it at you the whole way here.” He chuckled.

Astarion pouted. “He tends to believe that I’m deaf.”

Oleg raised a boney index finger. “It’s probably because you refuse to obey orders, I’ve noticed.”

This deepened the scowl on the elf’s pallid features. “No offense, but unlike you, I’m not content with being someone’s little toady.”

“None taken.” Oleg took out a pouch of tobacco and refilled his pipe. He reached down towards his lantern that sat upon the flat end of the stone rail, opened it up, and lifted the candle from inside it to light the tobacco. Putting the candle back where it was, he shut the lantern and sat up straighter—though he retained a considerable hunch in his back. “Lots of people in this world are layabouts.”

Astarion’s nose wrinkled, and it wasn’t simply because of the wretched smell coming from the elder.

With a hint of humor, Oleg added sarcastically: “No offense.”

“None taken.”

“I doubt that.”

“Hmh… Anyway, how long have you been serving _your_ master for?”

Imagining that he would be out here for a while longer, Astarion took his place upon the rail opposite of Oleg. Now the pair were like a couple of gargoyles defending the estate’s back entrance. Their sullen demeanor completed the look.

“Long time,” Oleg answered after some thought. “Served his parents before him. Stayed when they died. Seemed like a reasonable thing to do. Lord Bludov was only a boy back then, after all. Didn’t have anybody else to look after him.” He took a lengthy drag from his pipe, savoring in the smoke’s taste. “I didn’t have anywhere else to go, either.”

Astarion matched Oleg’s pose, yet added his own flair on it by laying his tired head in the arms hung over his knees. “How did they die? His parents, I mean.”

Oleg waved tapped the stem of his pipe against his unseen lips. “None of your business, really.”

“…Fair point,” Astarion yielded.

“I like to think so,” Oleg agreed.

Oleg thought it was safe to assume he could have some silence for a while, as he and Astarion both watched the stars glisten in the dark sky without saying a word, until Astarion started running his mouth again.

“It’s because of your horribly foul smell, isn’t it? That’s why you can’t go inside,” he suggested, stating the obvious.

Oleg’s hooded face turned towards the elf. “You’re a polite one, aren’t you?”

“And you’re undead, aren’t you?”

There was an alarmed pause from the elder.

“…I suppose it takes one to know one, eh?”

Oleg drew back his hood, revealing his startling appearance. His leathery skin was withered like that of a prune’s and took on a blueish-gray hue. Only a few patches of long white hair still clung to his ashy scalp. His thin lips were peeled back to reveal a yellowed maw with several missing teeth. The sunken-in eyes that stared at Astarion were glazed over solid white, yet clouded irises were barely visible even so.

Though the hood came back up as quickly as it went down, the memory of the old man’s ugly visage lingered in Astarion’s mind and left him speechless at first.

“Gods!” the elf blurted out once he rediscovered words. “You’re a ghast! I knew it!”

The ghast motioned with his hand for Astarion to settle down and lower his voice. “Not so loud. We don’t need the fine people inside to know we’re both shambling corpses…”

“What about your master? Is he—”

“Perfectly living.”

“But—”

“He’s a necromancer,” Oleg explained exasperatedly. “A lot of those in this city, seems like. Took a keen interest in necromancy when his parents passed. Can’t be helped, I suppose.” 

The old man redirected his attention towards the moon while enjoying his pipe, as much as he could with Astarion pestering him constantly. Perhaps it was his turn to start being a bother and see how the elf liked it.

“You and _your_ master don’t get on well, do you?” Oleg mentioned, seemingly out of nowhere. “Not that it’s any of my business.”

Astarion’s infamous frown made its comeback. “Indeed, it’s not.”

“…It’d be easier if you just accepted things as they are.”

That made the broody elf scoff. “What do _you_ know, you old coot?”

Oleg shrugged. “Not much, admittedly. But what I do know is: There are some things in this world that none of us can control. And in those cases, all we can really do is make the best of what we’ve got. Keeps a man from going mad, and you seem like somebody who’s on the brink.”

Now Astarion saw why the ghast was so terse. He especially didn’t like the old man when he was in more of a mood to be chatty, and he’d much rather that Oleg returned to his short responses.

“I used to have _everything_ ,” Astarion snapped, getting emotional. “I was a magistrate once, you know. Part of the nobility myself. Now look at me: I’m sitting here with an undead peasant who reeks like rotten fruit left out in the sun for too long, and who has the nerve to try and tell me that I should just be _happy_ with being a _slave_!”

“You’re right,” Oleg agreed. “It’d be easier to accept it if you started off with nothing at all, really.” There was sincerity in his voice. “I almost feel sorry for you.”

The comment stung Astarion worse than a stake being pierced through his heart, not that he ever felt that sensation, luckily. He imagined it hurt like the Hells, though. 

“Oh, please,” he hissed. “I don’t need your _pity_.”

Oleg thumbed the stem of his pipe. “Regardless, you have it.”

“And what was _your_ life like before…all of this?” Astarion waved his arm vaguely at nothing but thin air.

“Not much.”

Astarion waited for more, but he got nothing. “…Is that it?”

“Yep.”

The elf growled, clutching his fair curly hair. “You’re very frustrating, and I’ve only just met you,” he said when he could bare to look at the ghast again.

“Likewise.” 

There was a glimmer of the ghast’s sharp teeth when he grinned mischievously, betrayed by the glow of his lantern.

Astarion hopped off the rail and straightened his attire in a haughty manner. “I’ll leave you be, in that case,” he groused, in no mood to be messed with any further.

“You can stay if you like.”

The elf held his arms spread out with his face contorted in confusion; he didn’t know what to think about this peculiar old man. “Well, which is it? Do you want me to stay, or do you want me to piss off?”

“Stay,” was the unexpected answer.

With another grumble, Astarion sat back down. “And do what, then?”

Oleg shrugged noncommittally. “Enjoy the weather, I reckon.”

“I may as well watch paint dry!”

The ghast pointed a withered, shaking finger in the vampire spawn’s direction. “I believe that’s your real problem; you need to give appreciating the little things a go. Or appreciating anything, for that matter.”

“Such as…?”

“Being away from your master for a little while.”

That gave Astarion something to consider.

“Yes, I suppose you’re right…”

After a while, they both went back to watching the night sky, occasionally peering around at the other scenery in the estate’s backyard. Oleg flinched and gritted his teeth as soon as he heard Astarion inhale. Since the elf didn’t need to breathe, he knew it was only to talk some more.

“Can I ask you one more question? It’s the final one; I swear.”

The ghast groaned. “Make it quick. I’m losing my patience with you, I am…”

“Is it really true that you can become a ghast simply by consuming the flesh of another humanoid in life prior to your death? Is that how you became what you are, or did you—”

Astarion quieted when he felt the lanky creature’s gaze upon him when the old man’s head swiveled slowly towards him.

“Wouldn’t _you_ like to know, rat boy?”

“H-How did you know that I—” Astarion’s face took on a flustered quality and his fists clenched. “Fine, keep your secrets, you decrepit old bastard!”

Oleg broke out into a fit of laughter, then coughs when earnest merriment proved to be too much for his shriveled and neglected lungs to bear.

The old man was irksome, but Astarion had to concede that there was some truth in his words. There must have been _some_ things in this world that Cazador _couldn’t_ take away from him. Thinking about that gave him hope.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Evil grows in the dark, where the sun, it never shines. Evil grows in cracks and holes, and lives in people's minds. Evil grew, it's part of you, and now it seems to be that every time I look at you, evil grows in me."
> 
> Recommended Listening: Where Evil Grows by The Poppy Family


	3. Beauty in the Beast

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cazador takes his new love interest, Dobrogost, out hunting and drags poor Astarion along with them, but it becomes more than an average hunt for wild game.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (I'm enjoying this ship way more than I ought to.)

* * *

* * *

The nature of a vampire lord was in many ways akin to that of a lion at the head of a pride, and Cazador Szarr, like many of his kind, had inevitably fallen into the lethargy that was typical of a long-uncontested king. He grew complacent while cooped up within his domain for so many centuries, and the nights blended in with one another as he idled them away, while the rest of his pack did most of the hunting and other hard work for him.

But when the opera-singing tiefling had come about, becoming more than just an idle fancy to admire from afar, something dormant had stirred in Cazador’s spirit. Suddenly, he behaved as if he had something to prove once again, and that unsettled Astarion. Cazador’s whims were unpredictable since Astarion had known his master, so he could only imagine what he might do when he was _truly_ inspired.

On the other hand, this turn of events brought hope. Astarion had seen what Cazador was like when the man wanted to make a display of power here or there to startle his foes and cow his enemies, and the way that Cazador acted around the tiefling was unusual for him. They weren’t the mannerisms of a predator protecting his territory, but rather those of a forlorn heart whose soul begged to be seen, understood, and appreciated by someone else—by someone he saw potential value in.

That meant there was a possibility that Cazador—someone who Astarion nearly thought to be invincible—had a weakness. A chink in the armor.

At the very least, it was a very amusing idea to think that Cazador, a master puppeteer of people, could possibly have his heartstrings plucked as easily as a bard’s lute underneath the right hand. Astarion didn’t even believe the man _had_ a heart to begin with; he always assumed that Cazador’s fascination with romantic things like art was little more than a façade, but apparently, there really was more to it than that.

Even as an undead monster, Cazador wanted what everyone in this world wanted: Pleasure. Familiarity. Love. Passion.

Now, with the tiefling set to arrive to pay a visit to the Szarr estate within the hour, Cazador had taken Astarion out to the stables to ready his finest horses. For the first time in a while, they were going hunting, in the traditional sense of the word.

Astarion double-checked his equipment, unsheathing his skinning dagger to give it one final look-over, then he went about examining the tautness of his bowstring. He concluded the routine by adjusting the strap of the quiver on his back to make sure it was fastened securely, and throughout the whole process and even moments after, he thought back to his earliest days as Cazador’s vampire spawn.

“You’re a full-blooded elf, and yet no one has taught you how to properly hunt?” Cazador remarked when he proposed the activity to Astarion for the first time, many years ago, and his new spawn confessed he hadn’t the slightest clue about how to do it.

Being ignorant about the subject wasn’t something that had ever embarrassed Astarion until it was put to him that way. He used to be very apathetic about having a more city-dwelling nature; what did he care if he wasn’t going out into the woods and getting dirty in the mud all the time? Why would anyone in their right mind find any enjoyment in doing that? Especially if they had money!

Astarion hated to admit it, but if there was one thing he could—begrudgingly—give his master credit for, it was that Cazador taught him about several things he previously had little to no familiarity with. It was true that Astarion was reasonably learned in the field of law and took his job as a magistrate _somewhat_ seriously, but aside from that and a mild interest in reading, he was never much of a hobbyist. He liked socializing and playing, and he detested anything that felt like work.

Many of the things Cazador took a keen interest in felt like work, so they rarely ever saw eye-to-eye, even when it came to leisure.

But hunting, Astarion discovered, was fun.

“Master,” Astarion said when he was done ruminating, “what are we going to do about your tiefling friend? Surely, he’s too big for any of your horses…”

Cazador found himself at a loss, too, when he scanned his stock, but he was determined to find one among the bunch that would be suitable. For himself, there was no question; his horse was the prized mare he called “Majesty”, though technically she was one of many.

The beautiful, pitch-black mare’s lineage could be traced all the way back to the first “Majesty” of Cazador’s childhood. He loved that horse. So much so that he kept her memory alive perpetually by breeding a new successor as close to the original as possible over the span of centuries and by giving them her name once the previous one had passed on. Until then, they went by the moniker: “Princess”. Astarion was the rider of the current “Princess”, as has been the case for nearly two hundred years.

Meanwhile, Cazador either sold or kept his horse’s other offspring. Those that he sold netted a tidy profit, while the ones that he kept served as steeds for his lackeys, but only Cazador was permitted to ride the reigning “Majesty”. And if ever he believed that Astarion was abusing or neglecting the standing “Princess”, Cazador would let his spawn have a taste of his riding crop until he spat blood.

It was true that not many horses in the vampire lord’s stables would accommodate the tiefling, but there was one that might: “Duchess”, a mare that was vastly different from her mother in every conceivable way. She was a sand-colored horse with white dapples and a long mane that covered her eyes (how she turned out with the appearance that she did, Cazador had no idea, but he blamed Astarion for some kind of trickery with the breeder; _everything_ was the high elf’s fault in his mind, somehow), and she had an aloof demeanor with little interest in movement in general, let alone taking on a rider. But, when she could be convinced to go somewhere, she endured a wide range of climates very well and travel for surprisingly long distances in between full rests, provided that her rider wasn’t in a hurry to get where they were going.

Duchess wasn’t the best horse, but she was hardy, mild-mannered, and hopefully large enough for Cazador’s guest to ride. She would do; she’d have to, for there weren’t any other viable options. And besides, come to think of it, she reminded Cazador of Dobrogost when he’d had far too much to drink: Lazy, sluggish, and couldn’t be bothered with much. Perhaps they’d be fast friends. Neither had many, and both could probably use a few more. They’d probably have a lot to relate on intellectually as well—neither the horse nor the tiefling were too smart.

“Have the stable boy get her ready,” Cazador said to Astarion, gesturing towards Duchess.

“ _Her?_ ” Astarion replied with disbelief.

“Has your hearing gone, boy? Yes _her_ , now get to it!”

But before Astarion could leave to find the stable boy, his master placed a hand on his shoulder to stop him.

“Wait. One more thing before you go…”

“Yes, master?” Astarion said with a subtle sigh as he turned back around.

Cazador smoothed the wrinkles in his vest, having an unusually disconcerted air about himself. “How do I… How do I look, by the by?” he asked as casually as he could manage.

It took a lot of effort for Astarion to suppress an amused grin. He knew that the man would _never_ ask him that question if he could see himself in a mirror. “More put-together than your “friend” typically does if that’s what you’re worried about…”

The vampire lord scowled. “Who said I was _worried_ about anything?”

“No one, master! I had just assumed—”

“Well _don’t_ assume, boy. Get smart with me like that again, and you’ll regret it.”

Cazador dismissed Astarion with a wave of his hand, and off his vampire spawn went to fetch the stable boy. As soon as Astarion was out of sight for a while, Cazador proceeded to fuss over his hair and his attire a little more, but when he heard approaching footsteps that couldn’t be mistaken for the occasional stamped hoof of one of the horses, he busied himself with brushing Majesty’s fur instead.

He hadn’t been this anxious in a very long time.

* * *

Though he was running a little late, Dobrogost eventually arrived, and it was apparent from the scent on his breath that he’d been drinking alcohol prior. Cazador wasn’t thrilled about that, but it did make him feel more relaxed to know that the tiefling would probably be less perceptive of any mistakes or flaws on his part.

“Where is your servant?” Cazador asked while he assisted Dobrogost onto Duchess, grimacing at the unexpected difficulty of the task, which wasn’t helped in any way by the tiefling’s tipsy swaying during his attempts to hook his boots through the stirrups.

“Oleg?” Dobrogost asked drunkenly, eventually managing to prop himself up in place and take the reins into his hands. “Eh, he’s not much of a huntsman, and I figured I would let his old bones rest for a while. I left him with some of your relatives…coven…whichever. Anyway, they probably went inside the manor.”

Shockingly, Dobrogost had taken quite well to the news of his suitor being a vampire. He laughed at first, thinking it was a joke being delivered with deadpan sarcasm, but once the reality set in, he not only accepted it—he embraced it. He was _excited_ to be associated with such a dark creature; it complimented his own morbid lifestyle well.

“I see…” Cazador’s frown became more severe, but he mounted onto his own horse and spun her around with a tug of her reins and a click of his tongue. “Just as a warning: My family can be…excessively curious, at times. We don’t get many visitors.” He gently nudged Majesty’s sides with his feet, urging her forward, while Astarion and Dobrogost’s steeds followed her lead. “In other words, they might try to pry information about you out of him.”

Dobrogost laughed. “I believe I can trust your kin with my secrets, not that I have many of them that they might blink an eye at.”

“Don’t be so sure of that,” Cazador argued. “Personally, I _detest_ it when they nose around in my private affairs, but…they _are_ family, so I try to be somewhat lenient.”

Astarion audibly scoffed, drawing his master’s attention to him.

“Have something to add, boy? Do you disagree with what I’ve said?” Cazador asked sharply.

His tone made the high elf wither. “N-No, that was the horse that made that sound,” Astarion lied.

“Right…” 

Snapping the reins, Cazador’s horse barreled forward, peeling away from the winding path and towards the forest. Princess hurried after her mother, but Duchess lagged behind, though she’d catch up soon enough in her roundabout way, once her kin slowed down up ahead. 

The perpetual fog that lingered in Tumbledown made it hard to see, though it helped that the three riders had some sense of darkvision. Their horses’ movements slowed for the sake of stealth. 

Conjuring some of his vampiric power, Cazador summoned a small pack of wolves to search the area. The horses were unsettled by the creatures’ abrupt appearance, but they only fidgeted timidly as they trudged onward. They were used to being surrounded by predators, after all, and they would calm back down with enough time to adjust to the wolves’ presence.

“Have you ever been hunting before?” Cazador brought Majesty closer towards Duchess to be nearer to her rider. Duchess sniffed at her mother, and Majesty nipped at her for invading her personal space, making her daughter shake her head and huff dejectedly.

Dobrogost petted at his steed’s mane, fascinated with its softness, and grinned at his love interest. “In a sense…”

Astarion rode behind the two men, eyeing them with silent resentment and wishing he were anywhere else at the moment.

“And what was your quarry?” Cazador inquired further, body subconsciously bending towards the tiefling while remaining balanced in his saddle.

“Stray cats, mostly.”

“Err…”

The dumbfounded reaction made Dobrogost throw his head back and let out another guffaw. Cazador’s hand shot out to cover his mouth.

“Not so loud,” he hissed. “You’ll scare off everything in a ten-mile radius.”

In the back, Astarion’s lips curled in amusement, but it was short-lived when Cazador sensed it and cast a warning glare at him.

Up ahead, the wolves smelled something. One of them rumbled a low growl.

“Ready your arrows,” Cazador instructed in a whisper, reaching for his bow swiftly. “Keep in mind that they’re tipped with a paralyzing venom, so take care not to prick yourself on the tip.”

“Why?” Dobrogost asked, clumsily attempting to nock an arrow in the string of his longbow; he’d obviously never handled one before.

“Because we’re aiming to stun, not to kill,” the vampire lord explained with his own arrow at the ready, awaiting the first sign of movement. “I have my reasons for keeping my prey alive.”

He didn’t even have to aim when the fox jumped out of the bushes; the arrow sank right into its haunch, and it tumbled to the ground with a pained yelp. It hurried to get up, but one of the wolves came and seized it by the neck with its jaws. Another held it down on the other end with its paw.

There were more foxes; they’d stumbled across a little family of them. Pups hopped into vision, and Astarion didn’t think twice about shooting two down in quick succession—their youth hardly mattered for what he wanted them for; a meal was a meal, and it beat eating rats. He narrowly missed hitting Dobrogost’s head with the second arrow, and that was no accident. It left the tiefling, who still hadn’t managed to align the end of his arrow with the bowstring, shaken when it grazed over the top of his ear. 

Within a matter of seconds, Dobrogost’s whole ear and part of his jaw went numb. He forgot about getting a shot in while he had the chance, and instead put the arrow back in the quiver to try and rub the venom’s effects out of his skin.

Astarion must have thought he was out of Cazador’s immediate striking range because he was baffled when the flexible shaft of his master’s bow whipped back and struck him across the face, stunning him in his saddle and startling Princess into an aimless sprint.

“That little—” Cazador snarled, then—forcing himself to calm—touched a hand to Dobrogost’s face. “Are you alright, darling?”

Dobrogost nodded, though his face was rather pouty. “It’ll wear off on its own, won’t it?”

“Yes, it should only last a few hours, at worst.”

“A few hours?!”

“Hush!”

When Cazador looked back to the foxes, all but those that were downed with arrows were gone, and neither Astarion’s horse, nor the vampire spawn himself, had returned. Cazador gave some unspoken command to the wolves to bring the subdued foxes back to the estate in their maws, then motioned for Dobrogost to follow him.

“It looks as if we’re hunting Astarion now,” Cazador sighed. “I apologize for his behavior; clearly his leash isn’t short enough. He’s prone to such childishness, I’m afraid. I haven’t entirely broken that out of him _yet_.”

The tiefling smiled and said: “No worries, my friend. I’m not going to lie, I kind of like that about him; it’s entertaining.”

“Bah!” Cazador spat. “You wouldn’t think so after two hundred years of it, trust me. It gets old.”

“I should think _anything_ would get old after two hundred years,” Dobrogost quipped.

“Not I,” the vampire insisted with a glower, speaking somewhat self-consciously. “You’ll find that _I’m_ still in my prime.”

* * *

During their search for Astarion, a new kind of prey manifested in the form a couple of mourners: A husband and a wife, or perhaps they were a brother and a sister. Whatever the case may be, it hardly mattered. 

Not many people, other than treasure-seeking graverobbers, risked coming to the Cliffside Cemetery, as the Szarr estate was now officially titled in the public record, after putting their loved ones to rest because of all the dangerous and supernatural activity that was rumored to occur there. Some folk, however, were foolish enough to make the risky journey to the gravesites, unfinished with saying their goodbyes or perhaps having forgotten to remove the expensive wedding band from their estranged grandmother’s finger prior to her burial.

While he and Dobrogost kept their distance, Cazador smirked at his fiendish companion. “Would you like to be the first to attempt the shot this time, dear?”

The tiefling looked at the pair thoughtfully. “You mean at one of those two?”

“Of course. Whom else?”

Dobrogost brought out his ranged weapon yet again, and this time Cazador helped him nock the arrow. The way the vampire’s arms caressed him from behind as he assisted was much like a loving embrace. “Which one do you think I should go for?”

Cazador pondered the question, then guided the bow’s aim towards the man. “He seems the larger target. Harder to miss.”

“Good thinking,” the tiefling rumbled, squirming in his saddle nervously—not out of any moral conflict, but out of fear that he’d disappoint again.

“So, now what? Do I let go?”

“Draw back the arrow a little further, but not too much. You don’t want to snap the bowstring.”

“Like this?”

“Your aim is drooping. Lift the bow up a little more. No, that’s too much—lower… _Perfect_. Just like that.”

“Now shoot?”

Cazador nodded. “Now shoot.”

“Now as in now? Right now?”

“Fire the bloody thing already, you oaf!”

The air zipped through the air so quickly that it almost seemed like the man went down with an anguished shout purely by magic. The woman with him cried out in terror and panicked as her mind tried to make sense of what transpired when she hadn’t been looking. She bent down and tugged gingerly at the arrow, but that only made the man’s suffering worse, so she let go and grabbed at her hair, screaming for help.

Lifting his head, the collapsed man saw his shadowy attackers mounted upon their horses in the distance, and he brought forth enough strength to get to his legs and take off with his companion, but his power was waning fast. Eventually, he couldn’t keep up with the woman when she outpaced him. She came back to carry him away, and they were fleeing faster than they should have been on foot. At least one of them knew magic and had cast a spell to hasten their feet.

Cazador and Dobrogost gave chase, and they were coming closer to catching the duo with the advantage of being on horseback, but an even denser fog was rolling in to cloak their prey’s escape. The vampire lord shot multiple arrows into the veil of smoke, but no scent of blood followed to assure him that he’d been successful. Then, a ball of fire was hurled, and its path lit up the area as it soared by. Cazador realized quickly that Dobrogost had been the one to throw it.

Something combusted several feet away, and shrieking ensued amid the crackling of fire where the fireball had landed.

“Well,” Cazador murmured contemplatively, trotting his horse up to the charred remains once the inferno had subsided. “I suppose that’s _one_ way to do it… Not very elegant, but marks for trying… I can’t make much of a meal out of _that_ , though.”

Duchess flanked the other side of what was left of the pair, and Dobrogost said: “If you don’t want it, I’ll take it. I like my meals a little bit seared, anyway.”

“That’s _overdone_ , if you ask me,” said Cazador.

“I’m not too picky.”

* * *

Astarion wasn’t pleased when he was found and revived from his stupor, and he was even less happy when told that he had to bring a couple of burnt corpses back to the manor. Still, if that meant he didn’t have to shadow his master for the rest of the evening, that would be a fair trade-off for him. He needed some more time to recuperate from the lashing to the face he’d gotten, anyway; his face stung something fierce, and it was now tarnished by a dark welt.

“What are we going to hunt now?” Dobrogost asked Astarion’s master with a keen sparkle in his eyes, starting to see what Cazador saw in this hobby.

Cazador waited until Astarion’s silhouette disappeared behind the fog before he replied, then in a murmur said: “I want you to get off your horse and strip completely naked.”

It was such a surreal command that Dobrogost didn’t believe he’d heard it at all. “Huh?”

“You value our…relationship, don’t you?” The vampire smiled and circled him with his horse. Dobrogost nodded slowly. “Then do as I say.”

Cazador urged his steed to halt and watched with acute interest as Dobrogost slipped down from his saddle and reluctantly began to disrobe before him. The coincidental slowness of the tiefling’s movements—brought on by his uncertainty—made the show even more exciting. The vampire’s chest swelled as his lifeless lungs drew in air while he admired the devilkin’s physique with anticipation as it was revealed inch-by-inch.

“You really _do_ look like a beast when you’re naked,” Cazador murmured reverentially. “Magnificent,” he sighed. “Now, start running.”

“What?”

An arrow shot the ground near the tiefling’s foot, sending him the intended message clearer than any words could; Dobrogost took off in a hurry, and Cazador trailed him on Majesty’s back while cackling and readying the next shot.

“Don’t make this too easy for me, darling, otherwise I’ll be _very_ disappointed!” Cazador announced. From the sound of his horse’s movement—or rather, lack thereof—he was giving the husky opera singer more of a head start to make their impromptu game a little fairer. “I’ll count to ten!”

Dobrogost knew it was pointless, yet he ran as fast as his feet would carry him, ambling through the woods with less skill than a child learning how to walk for the first time. He fell several times, but he kept getting back up. Eventually, all he could do was crawl feebly. He was thankful that he narrowly avoided dipping his palm right into the un-tripped beartrap that was partially hidden by withered foliage; that would have made the already stressful situation a lot worse.

Exhausted, the tiefling sat behind a tree with a thick trunk, and he held onto his tail to prevent it from giving away his location with its anxious and jittery wiggling. The ground was freezing cold without his clothes to protect him from the elements, and the area he sat in felt damp from recent rainfall. Although, he might have simply pissed himself without being aware of it.

The treading of Majesty’s hooves came nearer, and the tiefling’s heart pounded. Cazador called out to him again.

“This reminds me of when I used to play hide-and-seek with my cousins as a child in this very forest!” said the vampire lord. “It was such great fun! For me, at least! Not so much for them, I think!”

Cazador and his steed continued their search, but they couldn’t pinpoint the tiefling’s location. However, acting on a hunch, the vampire drew his bow back and pointed it at the widest tree, waiting.

“Dobrogost, I can hear your heartbeat, my dear. It’s like a drum in my ears. Sing for me, won’t you, darling? I think your voice would accompany it well!”

The mocking suggestion sparked a genuine idea in the tiefling’s mind, and he did as he was asked. A haunting, downright magical melody boomed through the forest with an otherworldly echo to it. It changed the movement of the wind that flowed through the mists. Cazador peered up at the swirling movement above his head, and once he could make sense out of the shape coming near him, he was knocked off his mount.

A wailing specter had come and taken his bow, then tossed him to the side with an intense force. It spooked his horse—Majesty reared backward and whined in terror, nearly trampling Cazador when he hit the ground. He dodged out of harm’s way, but then ghostly skeletal arms emerged from the ground and held him in place. He fought them off with an intense fury.

Necromancy…

“Clever,” Cazador grumbled, reaching for an arrow in his quiver to use as a paralyzing dagger, but he discovered that it had been taken, too. He was going to be especially irate if he found out later that the specter that made a fool of him was one of his relatives.

Before he had much time to decide his next course of action, Cazador was tackled from behind by the naked tiefling. They kicked up dead leaves as they rolled around, and in the middle of the struggle, Cazador started to laugh mirthfully. 

“What fun you are, my love!” said the vampire.

Cazador overpowered his paramour, sitting on top of him while restraining him by the wrists. Then, his scarlet eyes narrowed, and he smiled as he touched their foreheads together.

“Oh, darling, look at you.” Cazador’s hands moved to touch Dobrogost’s face, combing his fingers through the tiefling’s beard. “I can see it in your eyes: I’ve _already_ pierced your heart, haven’t I? I don’t even _need_ to use an arrow to stun you—only my lips. My tender touch…”

Dobrogost gasped, permitting his lover to incline his head to one side and press his chilly mouth to his thick neck. Fangs sank into the flesh like jagged shards of ice during Midwinter, and in that instant, his soul mingled with the vampire’s as his blood was sampled. 

Cazador was eager, yet controlled, mentally counting every passing second and the amount of blood that went through the tiny holes in his teeth or passed over his tongue and dribbled to the back of his throat. He knew when to stop, and his iron grip on the tiefling’s jaw loosened as the fangs were withdrawn. He sighed in ecstasy while he licked his reddened teeth clean, and he was shamelessly, blissfully hard against his suitor’s thigh. His lover’s naked manhood pressed against him in turn, signaling the tiefling’s approval. Cazador plunged his head back down to capture Dobrogost’s full lips into his mouth in an intense kiss that was reciprocated with equal fervor.

“Let me make love to you,” Dobrogost said when their mouths parted.

The vampire played with the strands of his companion’s long hair. “Only if you beg for it,” he purred softly.

“ _Please_ …”

Smirking, Cazador sat upright on the man’s chest and removed the riding crop tucked underneath his belt, then smacked the tiefling on the hip with it as firmly as he could. “ _Pathetic_.”

Dobrogost winced at the pain, but his tail began to wag. He was struck again, and his excitement increased; his tail was thumping against Cazador’s leg, pleading for more of this kind of attention on his own behalf, but it still wasn’t enough to appeal to the authoritative vampire lord.

“Your manner of begging doesn’t impress me in the slightest, but what else should I expect from a spoiled brat who’s used to getting what he wants whenever he wants it?” Cazador elevated the tiefling’s chin with the tip of the riding crop while expressing a gaze that deemed him unworthy. “No matter. It seems I’ll have to put you through your paces and break you—to train you in pleasing your master appropriately, among other things…”

The vampire got up and went to his horse, calming her down with a few gentle pats. Once she stopped moving around, he removed her saddle, then slapped her on the hindquarters to send her racing back home. He would have to make sure that Duchess also found her way to the estate later, though that was usually no issue—she was very independent, sometimes to a benefit.

Now that it was just the vampire, the tiefling, and Majesty’s saddle, Cazador regarded Dobrogost with a wicked grin. “Get on your knees, you cur.”

Dobrogost’s tail could not stop wagging, despite himself.

* * *

Astarion was bored out of his mind as he lounged sideways on the couch in Cazador’s trophy room. Most people would have been awe-struck by the exotic collection of taxidermied creatures, the horns and heads mounted upon the walls, the fur rug and blankets hung over the chairs, and the paintings of Cazador posed with some of his kills above the mantel, but in Astarion’s case, the glamor wore off after the first few decades of seeing the “proof” of his master’s prowess. Now it all just seemed like a room full of tacky eyesores. Of all the areas that remained intact, why couldn’t this one have been burned to cinders when part of the manor was set on fire ages ago?

Oleg was mildly impressed, though, if the frequent tapping of his pipe's stem to his lip and occasional approving head bobbing was any indication of his real thoughts.

“Not bad,” the ghast would say about several of the pieces after he was done examining them. It grated on Astarion’s nerves, and that was probably Oleg’s intent.

Truly, the most embarrassing item in the entire room was the one painting that Astarion was in. While Cazador held the same serious expression that he had in all the paintings here, Astarion could barely look the painter head-on the entire time he posed for the portrait with his master. Instead, his eyes were shifted off to the side while he presented his meager kill (compared to the beast that Cazador was hoisting up, anyway), and he was staring down his master with subtle contempt and a miserable frown. It was a look that whispered: “Gods, I wish you were dead, you loathsome prick.”

It was the same face Astarion displayed now as he reminisced on the image’s history and let his bitterness burn on his mind for a little while until Oleg reminded him of the present.

“Been some time now,” the ghast observed. “Think they’ll be back soon?”

Astarion shrugged indifferently. “I don’t know.”

“Don’t suppose we should go looking for them, eh?”

“I’d rather not.” The vampire spawn stewed on the thought for a moment longer, and he cringed when an unpleasant explanation for what was taking the lords so long to return entered his mind. “In fact, we’d _better_ not…”

“Oh?”

The disgust never left Astarion’s face. “Knowing my master, I can imagine they’re having plenty of…“fun” without us. We’d best leave them to it."

“Ah.”

Astarion didn’t want to think about it any more than he had to, so he went back to silently raging about the past, while the ghast continued to pester him with idle comments and irritating questions.

* * *

In the aftermath of their lovemaking, Cazador and Dobrogost laid curled up with one another in the grass, horse saddle and riding crop discarded next to the vampire’s pile of clothing. Cazador was being remarkably cuddly for how violent he was moments ago with his lover, not that the tiefling minded in the slightest on either count. The vampire, now sated, had become less of a lion and more like a spoiled cat that wished to be petted by the creature it had claimed ownership of, and Dobrogost was more than happy to run his hand down the back of Cazador’s spine to fulfill this desire.

“You’re a good sport,” Cazador said with a breathy, delirious laugh, stroking the little spines on his partner’s battered and bruised chest with his fingertips. “Mm… And you’re quite the _stud_ as well.”

Dobrogost chuckled, too, twisting his tail around the vampire’s thigh. “You’re one crazy bastard, Cazzy.”

Cazador beamed proudly. “You’ll get used to it.”

Dobrogost matched his contented expression and kissed him on the forehead. “I already have. I like you a lot.”

The vampire glanced up at his lover coyly. “Is it only a “like”, my dear?”

The tiefling’s smirk expanded. “Hm… Well…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Straddle the line in discord and rhyme. I'm on the hunt; I'm after you. Mouth is alive, with juices like wine, and I'm hungry like the wolf."
> 
> Recommended Listening: Hungry Like the Wolf by Duran Duran


	4. Dine With Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Astarion and Cazador are invited over to Lord Bludov's manor for an evening meal.

* * *

* * *

Dobrogost stopped and stared at the gore and viscera that littered the garden in the back of his family’s manor. Strange. The bodies were so disfigured, yet he was certain that they belonged to his parents, even though the pieces were scattered all over the place and veiled by dark bloodstains.

He was only a boy back then, barely old enough to speak or understand much about the world around him. Earlier, he’d been exploring the streets not far from his home, looking for stray animals to harass or other small children whose hair he might pull out and put into his pockets, to eat it later. He knew not what he did, really, nor what he was seeing now.

It was almost as if he were waiting for his parents to suddenly get up and start moving again. Waiting for them to say something or call his name, but there they lay, motionless. It was unreal, like what happened to the animals once little Dobrogost caught them by the tail. They were so animated beforehand, but within moments, they became as still as rocks. Curious. Very curious.

Taking a few steps closer, the young tiefling knelt beside the fragments of the pair that gave him birth, picking through fingers, chunks of flesh, and shards of bone, ignoring the larger parts for now. They seemed too heavy for his tiny hands.

Still no movement. When were they going to do something about all this? Who was he going to call to now for answers?

“’leg,” the boy shouted, putting one of the fingers—his father’s, he believed—into his mouth, gnawing on it with his teeth for comfort. He was so stressed out. “’leg!”

He hadn’t been crying for an actual leg, of course. There were some right here; there was no need to yell for one to be brought. Rather, he was trying to say “Oleg”, the name of his parents’ most attentive servant.

Oleg didn’t come. He probably couldn’t hear Dobrogost. The boy plopped down on the ground, and he continued to play in the mess while he considered the scene some more, with the fingerbones crunching in the corner of his mouth when he wore open the flesh with his fangs.

Maybe this was all just a dream…

* * *

Awoken with a jolt in his heart and sweat coating his face, Dobrogost shot upright in his bed, finding himself face-to-face with his dearest servant, Oleg, standing at his bedside and peering at him worriedly with his strange milky-white eyes.

“I hadn’t meant to startle you, sir,” said Oleg, lowering his lantern in case its light only upset his master further. “But I reckoned it was about time you woke up. I let you sleep in a little too late, and I believe it won’t be long before your guests arrive. You should probably get on with getting dressed.”

After calming himself down and nodding to his servant, the lord yawned and dragged himself out of his bed, shivering at the sudden cold of exiting the warm sanctuary. He stretched his arms and popped his aching back, then slid his feet into his slippers. Everything in his body was sore, but that was an every-night occurrence for him; he was on the cusp of middle-age, and he hadn’t exactly taken the best care of himself over the years, thinking he had more than enough time to correct course when he started feeling like giving a damn about his health.

Dobrogost wasn’t the sort of tiefling who tried to make a good name for himself, either. He cared little about impressing anyone other than the man who faced him whenever he looked into a mirror. When he had to be somewhere in a hurry or had a scheduled appointment that neared, he didn’t make a ritual of polishing his horns and scouring the dirt from underneath his claws; he just got to his feet with a strained grunt and a muttered swear word or two, then threw himself together like an old wagon being held together with glue and rusted iron. 

Why bother making too much of an effort? People could tell he was of the nobility well enough with his fine clothing and flashy rings on, and as such, knew not to get on his bad side if they enjoyed keeping their internals on the inside, and their externals on the outside like the Gods intended. And if people thought that was ill-suited behavior, especially for a tiefling who had a lot more at stake if they looked bad in the public eye, anyone brave enough was welcome to express that sentiment to his face, and he would gladly drag them into the Hells that his people originated from and cast them into the nearest lake of fire.

Dobrogost was too worn-out, too stubborn, and too comfortable in his own skin to ever change his ways entirely. But the recent presence of Cazador Szarr, the first person in all his years that he ever courted— _actually_ courted, as hiring escorts and harassing unfortunate individuals for spontaneous sex didn’t count, he was pretty sure—inspired the lazy and uncouth nobleman to at least wash his face and comb his hair on occasion, among other little things that he’d only ever do when Jonas Goodnight, his employer, worked up enough spine temporarily to threaten to fire him if he didn’t get his act together and bring his out-of-control vices back to a more tolerable range.

Although, Dobrogost still drank a little before going to meet with Cazador, so that he’d feel less nervous during their encounter.

Clasping his hands together, the tiefling murmured a brief song to himself, and his body glowed with necromantic magic that relieved some of his fatigue and bodily pain.

“You really shouldn’t keep relying on that, sir,” said Oleg with a rattling sigh. He peeled back one of the dusty curtains to see if anyone was coming down the path that led up to the manor. It was so dark this time of evening that it was hard to be sure, but when he didn’t observe any signs of movement, he let the curtain fall back into place.

“I know what I’m doing, Oleg,” Dobrogost grumbled, in denial. 

Sometimes he wondered if he, like Oleg, was only kept within the mortal coil by the loose threads of the magic that he wove with his music. He knew of no way to turn back the clock, but there _was_ some time left to correct his course and live a reasonably better life. But to him, it wouldn’t have been one worth living. He was extremely attached to his way of life; he only hated the consequences. 

Necromancy, to some extent, subverted the drawbacks to his hedonism, but the time was borrowed. It wasn’t the cure to his life’s problems that his Thayan ex-associates made it out to be—not at his skill level, anyway. Most disappointingly of all, though, was that it hadn’t brought back his parents. He didn’t know where their souls had gone. And in his unremitted despair, he wasn’t sure where his own was going, either.

Dobrogost glanced at himself in the mirror once he was properly dressed, adjusting the collar of his coat as if that would do much to make him look any less of a wreck. “I think that’s good enough,” he assured himself.

Oleg didn’t have the heart to openly contradict his master. “Hopefully, your new companion will agree,” was all the ghast could say about the matter, and he held his lantern high again, escorting the tiefling downstairs.

“Eh, I don’t care what he thinks,” the ghast’s lord insisted, though the uneasy fidgeting of his tail said otherwise.

“If you say so, sir…”

* * *

Astarion didn’t know what to expect when he and his master were let inside of the ominous, abandoned-looking estate. He presumed that Lord Bludov’s home would be far from normal, but as he stood within the foyer, it simply appeared old and neglected—nothing too out of the ordinary, if one discounted the fact that no noble’s home should be this uncared for while it was inhabited by its rightful owner. 

He thought that Oleg might have taken better care of the place, but apparently not. In all fairness, it was a large mansion, and the ghast didn’t move about quickly—there was too much ground for one person to cover, but where were all the other servants? Surely, there were others somewhere. There had to be.

Cazador dragged a finger across one of the decorative tables he and Astarion passed by, then frowned at the dust he rubbed between his finger and his thumb.

_Oh, who are you to judge, you old bat?_ That was Astarion’s immediate thought when he noticed his master’s disapproval. _Your estate is a mess, too; our standards aren’t different just because we’re vampires…_

As if picking up on his spawn’s thoughts, Cazador’s critical gaze shifted to him, daring his slave to work up the nerve to speak his mind.

“I…” Astarion couldn’t conjure up a good enough excuse to fool him, so he simply lowered his head to show obedience and regret.

“Good evening, my love.” Dobrogost approached Cazador and squeezed his shoulder affectionately, then kissed him on both cheeks. “I’m happy that you could come to dine with me tonight.”

It wasn’t often that Astarion was relieved by the tiefling’s presence. Dobrogost could be as much of a dangerous wildcard as his master, but he was a lot more playful, easier to placate, and conveniently drew a lot of Cazador’s focus away from him. It was better that Dobrogost got the lash more often than Astarion did these nights; the tiefling actually _wanted_ it, anyway, the sick freak.

“Where’s _my_ kiss?” Astarion spoke up, grinning. 

Cazador appeared infuriated at Astarion again, but since the question amused Dobrogost enough to make the man laugh, Astarion knew that he was safe. Dobrogost would lament and complain if his lover deprived him of the wit of his clever servant, so if Astarion had to play the role of a court jester in order to openly be himself every now and then, he’d sink to that level. It stung what little pride remained within him, but it was worth it for a taste of pseudo-freedom. The key was to ensure that Cazador forgot about his quips by the time they were out of the opera singer’s sight again, and with all of the complicated schemes Cazador kept on his plate to occupy his thoughts with, that wasn’t so difficult a task as one might think.

Dobrogost ruffled Astarion’s hair affectionately, treating the elf like a silly little child. “I see more and more why this one is your favorite, Cazzy. He never fails to make me giggle.”

Bristling with jealousy, Cazador slipped an arm behind his partner’s back possessively and wrinkled his nose at Astarion like a wolf ready to bite. “Darling, don’t humor him. It only goes to his head, and then he thinks he can start misbehaving at home.”

Cazador had good reason to be paranoid, but not for the reasons he suspected. Astarion had no intention of eloping with his precious brute whose single redeeming quality was the ability to carry a tune. At best, Astarion would only want to sleep with his master’s lover to mess with his emotions—to give Cazador a taste of his own medicine. That would be a sight to see.

“Very well, very well.” Dobrogost reached around to hold Cazador at the hip, leading him and Astarion to another room in the mansion. “Oleg is with the kitchen staff getting _my_ dinner ready, so I suppose that while we’re waiting, I may as well give you both a small tour of my home to kill some time, then I’ll let you have your pick of the servants.”

That told Astarion everything he needed to know about the rest of the estate’s elusive inhabitants. Either they were locked up somewhere, or they were understandably making themselves scarce. Astarion himself could relate to either situation, as he’d been in both on multiple occasions throughout his time as Cazador’s vampire spawn. Sometimes, when he’d been particularly “bad”, he was put in chains until it seemed like he was forgotten about completely. Other times, when his master was in an especially dark mood and in search of anything to take out his aggressions on, Astarion would hide and pray he wouldn’t be found before Cazador could calm down or find someone else to throttle. But no matter the case, harm was unavoidable.

“E-Even me?” Astarion asked hopefully. He’d never gotten the chance to feed on a humanoid, and as much as he pitied Lord Bludov’s servants, the thought of temporarily easing the pain of his eternal hunger meant more to him.

“Of course not,” Cazador snapped. “I requested ahead of time that he have something “special” for your particular dietary limitations.”

Astarion gave Dobrogost a pleading look, but the tiefling shrugged at him. “Sorry, Astarion. They’re Cazador’s rules, not mine.”

Would there ever be a night that Astarion might be free of his master’s silly little rules? Thou shalt this, thou shalt not that—thou ought to stick it where the sun doth not shine, Lord Szarr…

It would be so nice, Astarion thought, to be his own person again.

Strangely, so much of Dobrogost’s home was covered up or obscured in some way. Cloths were draped over a lot of the furniture, the canvas of old paintings were blackened by scorch marks or ripped to shreds, there were lightened spots where wall-hangings used to be, and in a couple of rooms that Astarion peeked into, there were nothing but crates and cobwebs. The home had the appearance of someone who was in a perpetual state of moving away, yet ultimately going nowhere anytime soon. Someone who wanted to leave but kept putting it off for years.

“I swear that I still use some of these rooms,” Dobrogost promised, and eventually they were taken to one such area.

The warm candlelight, abundance of décor, full bookshelves (it was doubtful that Dobrogost read many of the books on them), and comfortable-looking furniture gave the sitting room a cozy atmosphere that contrasted with the rest of the manor Astarion and his master had seen so far, but something about the furniture was seemingly…off.

“I spend most of my time here when I’m at home,” said the tiefling, taking a seat on one of the couches. He picked up the balalaika that was propped up next to it and placed it in his lap, strumming at the strings with no specific tune in mind. The instrument resembled a lute, but its body was triangular at the bottom and the sound was higher pitched. Cazador sat beside him, while Astarion took his place on the couch opposite of them, folding his hands in his lap.

“Is that why the rest of the place is so…empty?” Astarion ventured. Cazador’s eyes locked on him, indicating that he should tread carefully if he chose to open his mouth further.

Dobrogost nodded noncommittally, keeping his gaze fixed on his fingers as he played the instrument. “I’m a creature of habit, and there’s not a whole lot of reason to maintain the entire estate. It’s just myself, Oleg, and that’s about it.”

“And your servants,” Astarion corrected him.

“Oh, right. Of course.” Dobrogost chuckled. “I forget they’re here sometimes. They’re like rats in the walls, you see. I can hear them constantly, but rarely ever see them in-person. They avoid me like the plague.”

“I can’t imagine why,” Astarion said, voice dripping with sarcasm. Cazador sneered at him.

“I like to think that I’m good to them, all things considered.” The tiefling was finally settling into playing out a proper song. Astarion vaguely recalled hearing it the last time he was in a tavern, searching for a potential meal to bring home to Cazador. “I let them stay in the guest rooms rather than the servants’ quarters these days. No point in letting the rooms go to waste since, usually, no one ever comes here. Oleg has to lock the servants up during certain hours; he doesn’t trust them not to try and stage a coup. But other than that, they live good lives here, for however long they may last.”

Astarion watched his master’s face for a moment, wondering if he should risk what he was about to say. He couldn’t hold his tongue. “They don’t sound like _servants_ to me. If they have no ability to come and go as they wish, then—”

Cazador was about to interrupt, but Dobrogost had done so first. “They _chose_ to come and work for me. If they regret it now, it’s their own fault. I feed them, I clothe them, I give them the best rooms in my home, and I hardly ask for anything in return. You can tell by the state of my home that they do next to nothing during their time here.”

The explanation raised so many more questions in the high elf’s mind, but with the way that Cazador was glaring him down, he knew that now wasn’t the best time to delve deeper into the matter.

Astarion’s master pointedly changed the subject. “Your music is beautiful, darling,” Cazador said to Dobrogost. “You have such _talented_ fingers.”

The couple’s shoulders touched together when Dobrogost bowed his head towards Cazador’s ear. “Perhaps after dinner, we could…” he murmured, leaving the rest of his thought open to interpretation.

Cazador grinned and waved Dobrogost away. “Oh, stop it. Just keep playing.”

For Astarion, being subjected to the pair’s romantic exchanges was the worst aspect of being dragged along for their dates. It was more painful and disturbing to watch them behave like bashful youths with one another than it was when Cazador struck him for behaving out of turn in front of his paramour.

Astarion looked elsewhere while the song was played and the tiefling’s deep voice began to accompany it, to spare himself from seeing his master happy whereas he was despondent. Only one piece of furniture in this room was covered by a sheet, and that piqued his curiosity. He waited until the melody was over with before asking about it.

_“The little man on his little raft floats away from his home found within the Sword Coast_

_River Chionthar would carry him far, towards the one he does care for the most._

_The waters would soon seek to sink him, still his love – it would never end._

_Unlike the vast winding curves of the great river, the mast in his heart didn’t bend._

_O’, the mast in his heart didn’t bend.”_

The sea shanty was admittedly very charming, but Astarion didn’t allow himself to forget about the inquiry on his mind.

“Lord Bludov, what’s that over there?” asked the vampire spawn after the music had fully died down, pointing at the veiled and mysterious object.

“Ah, I’m glad that you mentioned it, otherwise I would have forgotten all about it!” Dobrogost set his instrument down and went over to the item; whatever it was, it was nearly as tall as himself. “I dabble in a few other things besides music in my spare time. This piece is of my design, but I have to give credit where it’s due: Oleg did most of the work putting it together.” He clutched one end of the cloth, then grinned at Astarion’s master. “This is a gift for you, Cazador.”

Astarion’s mouth hung agape when the present to his lord was revealed. Cazador himself was astonished, too. They both left their seats to examine the gift closer.

“Is that…is that a _throne?_ ” said Astarion, although that wasn’t the aspect that shocked him the most.

The throne’s frame was comprised of bone and held together with taut muscle fibers, then padded with leather cushions on the back, seat, and arms of the chair. It only bore the scent of new leather, rather than the expected odor of rotting flesh. Something—probably magic—preserved the organic materials to keep them in a fresh state. And going by the shape of the bones, it all had to be made from _humanoids_.

“Only the best for my king, eh?” Dobrogost’s smirk was proud as he looked to Cazador for his approval. “What do you think, my love? Do you like it? Go on, try it out.”

The tiefling patted the leather seat, and Astarion felt a little queasy when he tried to imagine what sort of being it came from; even for him, some acts of cruelty were a little much. Although, that morbid part of the high elf deep down inside—the one brought on by his darker nature—was extremely jealous. No one ever gave _him_ a throne made from people, and he believed he deserved such a macabre, yet unique, treasure a lot more than _Cazador_ did.

Cazador leaned back into the ghoulish upholstery and gripped the armrests, taking well to the idea of being perceived as a monarch. He already fancied himself the true authority of the city, though having an actual throne to rule from served to boost his ego further.

“I _love_ it,” the vampire lord declared, permitting himself to sound a little giddy over the present. “And I have _just_ the place for it back home. Thank you, my pet. It’s _wonderful!_ ” He beckoned Dobrogost to bend over with his hand, then kissed him on the cheek. “Would you mind having some of your servants deliver it for me, darling?”

“Of course, I don’t mind,” Dobrogost answered, rubbing Cazador’s shoulder. “In fact, keep the servants I send with it, too. I have too many for my current needs. Do what you will with them; I don’t care.”

Cazador curled his finger around a strand of his lover’s beard. “My, aren’t you a sweetheart?”

Astarion was going to be ill. He was over the grisly design of the throne, but he couldn’t abide the brazen displays of affection going on between his master and the tiefling. Was it Cazador’s involvement that bothered him, or was it the heartbreak that he would never know what it was like to have someone who shared his own debauched tendencies? It was decidedly both. He not only hated Cazador, but he envied the man. He wanted everything that he had and more. It frightened him to think that, but it was true. 

Cazador had everything that anyone could want, and Astarion was convinced that those who might deny that they coveted his holdings were either lying or living in delusion. Everyone wanted power. _Everyone_. Even love was a concept tethered to wielding control. It meant that you had enough command over a person’s heart to make them give you anything you asked for and do _anything_ on your behalf. Perhaps even die.

Astarion wanted that.

Overwhelmed by the rush of troubling thoughts, Astarion swallowed in his dry mouth and ran a hand down his face to dispel some of the lightheadedness. Cazador sensed that his spawn was unwell.

“You’re getting thirsty, aren’t you?” the vampire lord asked.

Shamefully, Astarion nodded. “A little…” He wasn’t looking forward to whatever was going to be served up to him at dinner.

Cazador clutched his lover’s wrist affectionately. “Dobrogost, take him to pick out one of your servants for me to dine on; he knows what I like. I’ll head to the kitchen and ask Oleg if everything else is ready yet. You can show me the rest of your home later.” 

He stood, pulling himself up by the tiefling’s strong arm, then the pair exchanged one last kiss before the vampire lord made his way for the kitchen. His lover watched him go with a longing to be next to him again soon.

If Dobrogost was enthralled or hypnotized by Cazador in any sort of way, it was a welcomed enchantment, for he lacked the subtle cues of desperation to be released from it.

Astarion was in awe of how thoroughly his master had seduced the man, without even needing to dismantle his freedom of will first. Dobrogost handed it over readily.

* * *

Dobrogost and Astarion were headed up the stairs in the foyer, then took a right towards the guest wing of the manor when they began exchanging words again.

“I haven’t forgotten entirely about you,” said Dobrogost, clapping a hand on the vampire spawn’s shoulder, which gave the elf a start. “I have a gift for you as well.”

“Do you?” Astarion squirmed out of the hand holding him, reluctant to be near the fiendish tiefling. Still, he was interested in what he had to offer. “What is it?”

“Nothing tangible, I’m afraid.”

“I doubt that Cazador would let me keep it if it were, anyway,” Astarion blurted out with a fake laugh that almost resulted in his eyes welling up with spontaneous tears. 

What came over him just then? With a swift motion of his hand, Astarion checked to make sure his eyes were dry; he didn’t want to make a fool of himself. The tiefling might tell Cazador all about it at dinner if he had let himself cry, and they’d both laugh at him for it.

Dobrogost smiled, in a pitying way that deepened the elf’s frown, and replied: “I know. That’s why I made sure it was something that…cannot be grasped.”

“Go on and tell me what it is, then,” Astarion insisted.

They halted in the middle of the eerily silent hallway.

“A limerick!” Dobrogost said proudly.

“A…” Astarion paused. “…Cazador really _has_ been influencing you, hasn’t he?”

“A little. Do you want to hear it, or no?”

“Alright, I may as well…”

The tiefling cleared his throat dramatically to create some anticipation before he got on with it, reciting the limerick in a melodic tone.

_“Once, there was a vampire spawn…”_

Astarion cackled and shook his head. “You make it sound as if I’m dead,” he said, without thinking the statement over.

Though Dobrogost wasn’t pleased to be interrupted, he smirked back. “You kind of are, but that’s beside the point. Can I finish?”

“Point taken,” the elf responded grimly. “Sorry. Keep going. Now I have to hear this.”

Dobrogost recomposed himself and continued.

_“A high elf named…Astarion._

_By night, he would tug at his prick—”_

The revelation that it was a _dirty_ limerick threw Astarion off balance. “Er, where is this going, exactly?"

_“But sadly, it couldn’t get thick._

_His wood only woke up at dawn.”_

By the end of the recital, Dobrogost bowed, ignoring the lack of applause. Obviously, he was pleased by his own performance, but Astarion was unimpressed. Incensed, even. The elf’s arms folded standoffishly, and he bared his teeth at the singer.

“ _That’s_ my gift?” Astarion asked unappreciatively. He wasn’t sure why he wasn’t laughing, and why he instead took it to heart that badly. Usually, he could take a joke, even when it was aimed towards him. Cazador’s torture must have made his skin _thinner_ rather than thicker from all the times it was whittled away.

Dobrogost tapped Astarion on the arm with the back of his hand, encouraging him to lighten up, but the vampire spawn wasn’t finding the humor in the poem.

“Come on, Astarion, you’re supposed to be the funny one.” The rejection shown to his gift upset the tiefling. His tail flicked anxiously. “If you don’t laugh at my jokes, who will? Cazador almost _always_ chastises me when I try to be funny. Don’t be boring. I don’t like it when people _bore_ me.”

The subtle implication of a threat in the tiefling’s words didn’t elude Astarion; he knew what he was getting at. He had to keep reminding himself not to let his guard down around Lord Bludov since, like Cazador, his moods and whims were unpredictable, aside from the occasional and sometimes easy-to-miss warning signs. The appearance of friendliness could shift to violence at any given moment. An outstretched hand offered for a gentlemanly handshake could be rescinded and replaced with a fist to the face. Astarion had to be careful here.

“I think it’s just that a lot has been on my mind lately,” Astarion lied to placate the man, all while inching backward a few feet to put more space between them. “It’s made me misplace my sense of humor.” Another forced titter vibrated in his throat.

“Well, find it. I like you, Astarion. There are not many people that I like, so I would hate for that to come to an end,” Dobrogost replied earnestly.

The fake smile that Astarion stretched his lips into hurt. “ _Of course._ ”

Dobrogost mumbled something crankily under his breath when he retrieved a keyring from his belt and went through the keys, searching for the one that would open the first guest bedroom door. “Did you at least get the punchline of my limerick?”

Astarion’s smile quivered, threatening to fall. “Yes…”

“It’s a morning wood joke.”

“ _Oh, trust me, I got it._ ” The elf’s patience was slipping.

“It’s funny because vampires—”

Astarion sighed. “Can’t ever see the sunlight…”

Dobrogost peered up from his keys with a frown, isolating one of them between two fingers. “I sense that there’s some disappointment in that.”

Astarion rarely ever had a chance to confide in anyone. He trusted no one, and Dobrogost was no different, but the talkative tiefling was one of the few people curious about what was on his mind. And what was the harm in admitting the truth in this situation? 

“I miss being in the sun,” the vampire spawn confessed, bowing his head sadly. “The night is so cold and gloomy. I’ve grown tired of it. Wouldn’t you?”

“Eh,” Dobrogost inserted the key into the door’s lock and turned it, then the handle. “I’m more of a night owl.”

Astarion could see why there were rumors that _Dobrogost_ was the mysterious vampire lord of Baldur’s Gate that only a few citizens believed existed in the first place. He had all the ghastly mannerisms and diminished conscience of a vampire while being completely alive and well, and many people thought the Szarr family was entirely wiped out. If Astarion didn't know the truth, he'd say the tiefling was a good candidate for the city's suspicions. 

“Lucky you…”

Dobrogost's attempt to open the door was met with resistance. He pushed it inward, but it barely budged. Something or someone was trying to block his entry. Whimpering came from the other side of the door.

“Does this happen every time?” Astarion asked.

Dobrogost butted his horns against the door in frustration. “Every time. Oleg is better at rounding the servants up.” 

He jostled the door’s handle, getting more violent with it as his fury rose. He kicked at the door, then slammed into it with his elbow, and the furniture that was blocking the opposite side of the door screeched against the wood flooring when it was forced aside, leaving a large enough gap for the husky tiefling to wiggle through.

“Please, no! Don’t pick me! Mercy, my lord! Mercy!” shrieked a male voice from within the room, followed by a terrified yelp.

Dobrogost returned into the hallway, dragging the panicked and sobbing human by his neck. Astarion’s eyes met with the servant’s. Seeing the elf’s fangs barely poking out of his open mouth, the human blubbered even louder, struggling in his master’s tight grasp.

“I don’t want to die! I’m too young! I-I haven’t even completed my magnum opus! You can’t kill me yet; it’s not fair!” screamed the man.

The tiefling dug his sharp claws into the human’s neck, eliciting another cry, and pulled him towards the next door over. “Stop being so _noisy_. It _annoys_ me.”

The servant’s head was bashed into the wall to stun him and induce silence. Then, he was thrown to the ground and held in place by his master’s foot. Dobrogost flipped through his keyring a second time, indifferent to the violence.

Astarion didn’t know whether to be shocked or impressed. Perhaps he was a little of both. “What was he saying about a magnum opus?”

“Eh, he’s a painter,” Dobrogost explained casually. He tried one of the keys with the door, groaned irritably when it wouldn’t open, and resumed his search for the right key. “Used to make the promotional posters for the theater’s shows until Jonas couldn’t afford to keep commissioning him. He couldn’t find work anywhere else, so I offered him work at my estate. He didn’t like the idea at first, but I told him that he would have a free place to stay and that I would provide the materials for him to continue his artistry. I do a bit of painting myself in my free time, so I already had the necessary tools laying around here. It didn’t inconvenience me much.”

“And did he know about...” Astarion trailed off, glancing down at the barely conscious man concernedly, “…the working conditions here?”

“What, do you think I just _tell_ my servants-to-be that I may have plans to eat them later on?” Dobrogost laughed, putting the next key into the lock. “If I did that, I’d never get new servants to replace the former ones. But they figure it out on their own, eventually. For one, they’re never permitted to leave my home. I don’t tell them that, either, but that also becomes obvious very quickly.” 

He removed the key from the lock and jingled the keyring at Astarion to get the message across, then tried several other keys with the lock—all attempts resulting in failure. Astarion considered offering his lockpicking skills as the tiefling became increasingly frustrated, but that would only mean reuniting with Cazador sooner. He’d rather delay that encounter.

“And what’s the general life expectancy of your servants once they accept your offer of employment?”

“That depends on how entertaining I find them to be,” Dobrogost answered. “Oleg can attend to all of my needs by himself, but I keep these other people around for the company. Or, at least, that was the idea originally. Unfortunately, most of them are very rude, as you can see. Not great for conversation. They’re really only good for doing menial tasks. And for eating, when I grow tired of them.”

“If I may be so bold as to ask,” Astarion cautiously began to say, “what turned you to…cannibalism? It’s not a preference one sees often in the living.”

With his back turned, Dobrogost’s mournful expression was hidden from the vampire. “It’s a long story. One that I don’t care to share.”

Astarion took a couple of steps closer and showed curiosity in his voice. “So, even Cazador doesn’t know the answer to that?”

“My friend, a word of advice: Quit trying to stick your nose in places where it does not belong. You never know if it might get bitten off.”

The elf gulped. “Sound advice…”

This door, once it was opened, flung inward without issue, and the reason why that was became apparent when both Dobrogost and Astarion could see the inside of the room. Across from where they were standing, there was a long-deceased gnome tied to a chair, sitting in front of a chess table. The stagnant air in the room carried the pungent smell of decay.

“Ah. Shit,” said Dobrogost. “I forgot I left him like that.”

Astarion slipped past the tiefling to investigate the corpse. “Eugh. His blood is practically curdled, I would say.” He glanced down at the chess table, noticing that there had been a session in play. “Looks like he won the game, though.”

The luminescent red rings around Dobrogost’s pupils lit up in an epiphany. “Oh! _Now_ I remember why I left him like that!” His face contorted into a pout. “I _hate_ chess. When I was a boy, my tutors used to insist that I learned how to play it. Bah!” He waved a hand dismissively. “I hated my tutors as well.”

“I’m sure the feeling was mutual,” Astarion mumbled to himself, deciding to leave the room after seeing that the body was no good. 

He wouldn’t have offered it to Cazador if it had been half-decent; his master would be furious if he brought him something that was already dead. Truthfully, Astarion considered begging for it to be _his_ meal if the blood had still been more of a liquid than a solid. Just once he wanted to drink from a humanoid, to see what it was like.

Dobrogost yanked the human in the hallway by his leg as he and Astarion continued along their path. The subsequent bedroom’s occupant was conclusively alive because the moment their footsteps were heard in the hall, crying and fearful muttering broke out.

“Oh Gods, he’s back,” a feminine voice wept.

But when the door was opened, the room appeared devoid of life.

Dobrogost turned to Astarion and handed him the human’s leg. “Make sure he goes nowhere.”

Astarion clutched the human’s limb tightly and observed with fascination as the tiefling plodded into the bedroom.

“Helloooo?” Dobrogost called out. His eyes scanned the room and his ear twitched, listening as he stood beside the bed. Faint crying was coming from underneath it, and once he picked up on that, he got onto the floor and reached towards the sound.

“No!” the woman screamed at the top of her lungs. She was grabbed by her orange tail, and she screamed again. Clawing at the floor did nothing to help retain her hiding place. It only bloodied her fingers and left scratches and crimson streaks on the floor when she was unceremoniously yanked out into the open by her captor. “I have a family! At least let me see my children one last time first! I haven’t seen them in years!”

Dobrogost now held her by her short horns and tilted her head up for Astarion to see her face more clearly. “What do you think? Would Cazzy like this one more, or is the painter more to his preference?”

The tiefling woman clasped her hands together and shook them. Her mouth tried to form words so that she could plea for her freedom, but nothing would get past her choked sobs.

“I think…” Astarion frowned, turning the human over to get another peek at his appearance, then compared it with the woman’s. It was a tough decision since he could easily see himself picking either as targets during one of his nights out on the town. “The painter. Let’s go with the painter.”

Dobrogost grinned. “You’re not saying that because you feel sorry for this one, are you?” He shook the woman by her horns, and the fear of having her neck broken made her shriek once more in panic.

“N-No, It’s not that! I swear!” Astarion replied hurriedly, holding up a hand to signal for Lord Bludov to stop.

“Ah, good.” Dobrogost tossed her aside, then stood up and dusted off his hands. “She’s my tailor, and a decent one like her is hard to replace. But I was willing to part with her if it pleased my lover.”

The woman scrambled back under the bed and proceeded to bawl while her master left and locked the door behind himself.

“Now that we’ve got that settled,” Dobrogost put his keyring away, “let’s go down to the dining room and tell your master that dinner is served.”

* * *

Gathered at the dining table were Dobrogost, Cazador, Oleg, and Astarion. Oleg sat next to his master, while Astarion was seated near his own. Between Astarion and Cazador was the painter, whom the vampire lord had hypnotized into a delirious state. 

Astarion pretended that the painter wasn’t sitting next to him, staring at him with a dull and confused look in his eyes, and drank from his glass of wine to distract himself from both the painter’s curious gaze and the fact that he had a dead cat with gross, matted fur in front of him on his plate. Cats ate rats, so he assumed this was supposed to be considered an upgrade from his usual daily meal. How thoughtful.

“You’re eating meat pie again?” Cazador asked judgmentally about Dobrogost’s dinner of choice.

“What? It’s my favorite!” Dobrogost said defensively. He picked up his fork and took a bite.

Cazador shook his head in dissatisfaction. “Your species is carnivorous, dear. All that grain isn’t good for you.” He reached under the table and prodded at the tiefling’s belly with a finger. “You’ll get sick and die.”

“At least I’ll die fat and happy.”

“Don’t talk with your mouth full; it sickens me.” Cazador turned around and gingerly cradled the painter’s head in his hand, then sank his fangs into the man’s neck. 

Astarion recoiled when he caught his master staring at him while feeding. He knew that Cazador was taunting him, showing off the fact that he could drink from thinking creatures while he couldn’t. It was torture. 

Leaning forward, Astarion pierced the deceased cat’s body with his fangs, pretending to savor its blood. As always, drinking from animals, especially when they were already dead, was a miserable experience. But he refused to let on that he hated it. He wouldn’t give Cazador the pleasure of seeing him get teary-eyed with shame.

Oleg looked upon Astarion with what was either pity or disappointment for a moment, but he went back to minding his own business and sampled from his own meat pie. Apparently, he got to eat whatever his master ate, unlike Astarion. Dobrogost was an absolute barbarian, but at least he treated the ghast extremely well. Astarion envied their relationship, wishing Cazador showed him the same level of respect after two centuries of faithful servitude.

Blinking back embarrassed tears, Astarion quietly listened to the conversation the two lords were having. He hoped that by the time he drained the cat dry, his despair would wane.

“How have things been at the theater?” Cazador asked Dobrogost after dabbing the blood from the corners of his mouth with a cloth napkin. 

He liked to pretend that he could make the act of exsanguination appear less ghoulish with good enough table manners on display. His host wasn’t so dainty. Dobrogost was decidedly beastly in the way that he ate, much to Cazador’s chagrin.

“Things have been operating smoother than usual,” Dobrogost responded in between bites. He barely chewed his food, shoveling pie into his mouth as if the plate would be taken away from him at any moment. “Thanks to your generous donations.” He picked a stringy piece of meat out of his teeth with a claw. “Oh, and I appreciate you sending in some of your specialists to throw off the Flaming Fist’s investigation on the most recent “stage accident”. Their newer members aren’t as receptive to bribery compared to the old guard, and I know I was their prime suspect.”

Cazador beamed at the tiefling and touched his arm. “It’s not as if I’m going to let anybody take you away from me, my dear, especially not over the death of some upstart _novice_ that won’t be missed.”

Dobrogost reached across the table to take Cazador’s other hand into his own, squeezing it softly. “I’m glad to know that you’re looking out for me, little bat. My former colleagues were always so eager to throw me underneath the cart, it seemed…”

“We _do_ have to look out for one another, don’t we?” Cazador lifted his wine glass to his lips for a small sip. “That’s what lovers are for.”

The cat on Astarion’s plate was rendered a shriveled husk when the vampire spawn was done with it. He peered over at Oleg, who didn’t understand why he was being stared at until Astarion tilted his head towards the flirtatious couple.

Oleg let out a raspy sigh and stuck his fork into his half-eaten pie. “Lord Szarr?” he asked, gaining Cazador’s attention. “I reckon I’m going outside for a walk and a quick smoke. Should I take Astarion with me to get him out of your hair for a few?”

Cazador acknowledged Astarion thoughtfully. “Hm… You may as well. I _would_ like some time alone with your master. There are a few things I need to discuss with him in private.”

The ghast nodded with a grunt, got out of his chair, and picked his lantern up off the table. “Come on, then, Astarion.”

Astarion was more than thrilled to be given an excuse to leave his master’s side and followed the ghast without dispute.

“Thank you for that,” Astarion whispered to Oleg when they were outside. “Isn’t it _repulsive_ how they dote over each other like that in front of us?”

Oleg shrugged and fished inside of his coat to find his pipe. “I’m just glad Lord Bludov’s got a new friend. Gives me more time to myself.” He turned his head to cough. “Don’t have to worry about him as much, either. He’s built like an ox, but he can hardly take care of himself. I noticed Cazador must’ve trimmed his hair lately. Good on him. I sure as hell can’t do it worth a damn. Hands are too shaky.”

Astarion sneered at the ghast as they walked down the path to the estate’s garden. “You don’t _really_ believe my master cares for him, do you?” he asked incredulously.

“Dunno,” Oleg said, lighting up his pipe with his lantern’s candle. “All I can speculate on is what I see. So far, so good, I suppose. If my master’s happy, I’m happy. It’s as simple as that.”

“You’re far too complacent,” Astarion complained.

The ghast blew a puff of smoke into the vampire’s face. “You’re far too cynical. Enjoy the good times while they last. They don’t last forever, you know.”

Astarion waved the smoke out of his face. “Ugh. For what reason do you still smoke, anyway? You’re dead; I doubt you get anything out of it.”

“Old habit.”

“I can tell…”

“Know anything about gardening?”

The sudden change of subject perplexed Astarion. “Why are you asking?”

Oleg stopped near a wilting rose bush, bending over to pick up a full watering can. He handed it over to Astarion. “Need help tending to the plants.”

Astarion groaned, but he took the watering can’s handle into his hands. “I didn’t think you were bringing me out here to help you with _chores_ , but if it’ll keep me out here for longer, I _guess_ I could help…”

“Good man,” said the ghast with an appreciative nod, then he shambled off to the rickety tool shed nearby. “I’ll get the shears.”

On the bright side, Astarion was once curious about gardening, but he abandoned the idea when it seemed like too much work. But after he and Oleg had gotten started and the ghast taught him a few tricks to make the various tasks involved in tending to the plants easier, it wasn’t so complicated after all. 

Astarion kind of liked gardening. It was calming, peaceful, and took his mind off all the things that upset him, and the flowers, even in their unhealthy state, smelled wonderful as their interwoven fragrances were carried upon the cool night air.

Oleg allowed him to borrow the shears and practice trimming away the dead parts of the foliage. After a while, Astarion’s mind wandered, and eventually, he was imagining himself chopping Cazador up into bits. It was a pleasant thought that brought a smile to his face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "I've tasted friendship, I've tasted you, I've tasted dying and it tasted good!  
> I've tasted heartbreak, I've tasted food, I've tasted dying and it tasted good!  
> But that's dessert!  
> You can have it when the dinner is gone!"
> 
> Recommended Listening: Dinner is Not Over by Jack Stauber


	5. A New Life

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oleg was always a little ghastly, but he wasn't always a ghast. While working on a project at the Szarr estate, he reflects on those days fondly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is an idea for a bonus chapter that came to mind! I'm usually reluctant to do chapters that are too OC-centric, so I hope it's not minded that I've done one like that. I felt it might add a little something extra to the story.

* * *

* * *

Oleg retraced his steps along the long path leading up to the Bludov manor, buying himself more time to rehearse in his head what he might say upon meeting with the patriarch and the matriarch of the noble family to discuss the job opening for a new servant at their estate. 

He had no business here, but he needed the money. And he was never nervous—not since his youth—but he did worry that he came all this way for nothing, or for something far worse.

_Just so you’re aware, we’ll be asking around town about your character. We hope you don’t mind, but we do this for all our applicants. One can never be too careful._

That’s what they had written in their reply letter to him. After that, he expected that would be the end of their correspondence, but shockingly, they sent a second letter summoning him for an interview. 

Oleg was skeptical of their invitation, and he considered not answering it at all. It seemed risky. He suspected that making an appearance at the Bludov estate could result in him being turned in to the law; there were no doubt several people in the city who were willing to rat him out for a bit of coin, he was sure.

On the other hand, he _desperately_ needed the money. Badly. Times were hard, and jobs were few and far in between lately.

So, he kept traveling up the path, finally convincing himself to stop stalling and get on with it. The sooner he got this over with, the better. He was nearly exhausted by the time he trudged up to the heavy wooden door and knocked with a boney knuckle.

When the door opened, Oleg expected to be met by a servant, but going by the way that the pair were dressed, they had to be the Bludovs themselves. That wasn’t the most surprising part, however. Oleg hadn’t expected them to be tieflings—an uncommon sight in these parts, and even rarer to be seen among the nobility of Baldur’s Gate.

In fact, until he saw their job listing, he’d never heard of the Bludovs before, but their obscurity aside, it was also apparent in how personable they were being by greeting him at the door that they were new money around here.

The young husband and wife smiled warmly at him, and that alone made their devilish features less frightening. They seemed like ordinary people—for nobles—looks aside. Oleg had never met a tiefling before, as far as he was aware. He heard that not all of them had traits that obviously marked them as having otherworldly heritage, so for all he knew, one or two of the “elves” he met in his lifetime could’ve easily been one. 

Regardless, it was hard to be put off by such a charmingly handsome couple, although Oleg didn’t smile back. It was nothing personal; he just wasn’t the sort to smile. But he did nod to each of them respectfully.

“Evening, ma’am and sir,” Oleg said in his hoarse voice. 

He had lived a harsh life, and it showed in every part of his appearance, from his haggard body to his worn-out clothes. He became old long before his time, and he was only growing older. Some folk were unlucky like that: they barely were given much time to enjoy the carefreeness of youth.

“You must be Oleg,” said Lady Bludov with a small curtsey. “We saw you coming up the path through the window.”

Lord Bludov chuckled. “You looked a little lost, and we were about to come outside to meet you.”

Oleg cringed in embarrassment. It hadn’t crossed his mind that anyone could’ve been watching him while he was nonsensically going back and forth along the path. “Dropped my house keys and couldn’t find them at first,” he lied to save face.

“Oh…” Lady Bludov exchanged glances with her husband. Neither of them bought the story, but they went along with it for the sake of maintaining the man’s pride. “Right, well, come in! We can discuss the matter of your employment over a cup of tea.”

“Very kind of you,” Oleg said as he stepped past the threshold when the couple created a gap between them to let him enter.

* * *

Oleg never cared much for tea. He was more of a coffee person, but he didn’t want to be rude. He stirred his teabag around in his cup more than he drank from it, but the Bludovs paid no mind to that, nor did they pay much attention to how his eyes wandered around the tea room in the middle of their discussion. He’d never been inside a place this fancy as a guest before.

Once the Bludovs were done helpfully rambling off what Oleg could expect from the daily life of a servant in their household, Lord Bludov brought up an unexpected topic.

“We’ve heard rumor that you’re a highwayman. Or rather, that you _were_ one, before you decided to stop running with your crew for “reasons unknown”,” the lord said very casually while refiling his wife’s cup with warm water.

In the middle of one of his polite sips, Oleg nearly spat out his tea. “Hm? Well…” He slapped his throat, coughing. “Yes.” No sense in hiding it, he reckoned. The lord sounded confident that he had good sources for his information.

“I hope you’ll forgive me for saying this, but it seems…odd that you’d want to suddenly take on the honest job of working at a noble estate as a servant.” Lord Bludov struggled to word his concerns politely. “You know, being a former thief and all.”

The lady nudged her husband. “Don’t be rude,” she whispered louder than she meant to. “We already agreed that we were going to be open-minded about this whole thing. People _need_ the opportunity for second chances if they genuinely want to change.”

“I agree, my love, but I just want to hear what he has to say about it—that’s all,” the lord explained.

“It’s alright, ma’am,” Oleg said to the woman before acknowledging her husband’s worries. “A job’s a job, and these days, I’d rather have a real one than one that’ll inevitably have me put on the gallows.” He set his teacup down on the table; the tea had grown too cold, and it made the taste too bitter to stomach anymore. “I’ve tried getting into other places, but you two were the first to respond. Simple as that.”

“See?” The lady frowned disappointedly at her spouse. “Not _everyone’s_ looking to con us. Some people just want a new life, and regardless of whoever he might’ve been in the past, he seems very decent now. I say that we should give him the job and see where it goes. We have plenty of people to keep an eye on him, and frankly, I’d feel _safer_ in this house having someone around with a…seasoned history.”

Lord Bludov rubbed his forehead. “Alright, alright.” He peered over at Oleg, then extended his arm, offering a handshake to seal the deal. “I know they say you should never shake hands with devils, but I hope that you’ll trust that my wife and I are pretty far removed from our kin in the Hells,” he teased.

Oleg leaned forward in his chair to shake the lord’s crimson hand. “Never crossed my mind, honestly.”

The lady smiled approvingly. “We’ll have one of the maids prepare a room for you in the servants’ quarters. Don’t worry about assignments for tonight; we like to have our servants spend the first night getting settled in and introduced to our other employees.”

“Thank you, ma’am.”

With employers like these, maybe it _wouldn’t_ be so hard for Oleg to adjust to his change in lifestyle. Maybe it would even last.

* * *

A few years later, Oleg became the head servant of the household. He wasn’t doing too badly for himself. 

In the early days of his service, he expected that it eventually wouldn’t pan out for him and that he’d go back to a life of crime, but he adjusted to working for the Bludovs quite well. The work was a lot less risky and the pay was a lot more consistent.

Besides, he was getting too old for the criminal lifestyle. That was more of a young man’s line of work. One rarely saw robbers who had to carry a cane to get around, and although he wasn’t quite _that_ old, time was creeping up on him faster now than it did in his youth.

While doing his nightly patrol of the estate, Oleg heard a commotion coming from one of the vacant guest rooms down the hall. He crept up to the door and pressed his ear to it, listening carefully. Someone was going through the drawers, and he doubted that one of the other servants was cleaning up the bedrooms at this hour.

Oleg set his lantern down by the door before he cracked it open to give him enough light with which to see. Whoever was in there had their back turned, and he didn’t recognize the man in the slightest. At the very least, he was positive that it was someone who wasn’t meant to be there, so he snuck behind the man as quietly as he could.

Drawing a concealed dagger from his boot once he was near, Oleg held it to the thief’s back. “Your money or your life,” he commanded at the intruder, without much forethought. He was instinctively channeling the person that he once was not so long ago.

The baffled trespasser put his hands behind his head and stammered, “Wh-What?”

Oleg stuck him in the back with the tip of the blade, and the robber flinched in pain. “You heard me. Hurry it up, or I’ll take both.” He gave the man another poke when he hesitated to reach for his coin purse. “Go on. Don’t have all night.”

The thief was weeping now. His rolling tears glistened in the dim candlelight from the lantern at the foot of the door as he slowly handed his money over, but Oleg wasn’t moved by his crocodile tears. This man put himself into this situation. Oleg accepted the potential of facing consequences back when he lived this risky sort of life, and he expected the younger generation of upcoming criminals to do the same.

“Now get out,” Oleg barked, waving his dagger towards the open window while pocketing the coin purse. “And don’t even _think_ of coming back with friends, if you have any, or you really are as good as dead. In fact, you’ll wish I killed you now and got it over with compared to what I’ll do if you show your face around here again. Got it?”

Whimpering and nodding, the thief ran towards the window and slipped down the rope he used to climb up with, probably burning his hands raw in the process. Oleg went to the window and severed the rope with his dagger, hearing the man crash down below before getting back up and taking off in a sprint.

Oleg shook his head, bending over to put away his dagger. “Stupid bastard,” he grumbled to himself while adjusting his boot with a finger. “Should’ve just killed him. But then I would’ve had a body to deal with. Too much trouble. Oh well…”

He shut the window and locked the latch, closed the curtains, and left the room to retrieve his lantern and return to his duties as if the burglar was only a minor inconvenience. 

He wouldn’t tell the Bludovs about the incident; it would only frighten them needlessly. Young and desperate first-time criminals were a copper a dozen, and he could handle them easily.

* * *

The next morning, Oleg used some of the thief’s coin to buy a set of paint and a few brushes while he did the grocery shopping for his noble lord and lady’s larder.

When he got back, he grabbed one of the smaller logs outside that was going to be chopped up into firewood and took it to his room, where he spent the next few days, during his free time, whittling it into the shape of a sword. Then, he gave it a colorful paint job to make it look more pleasing to the eye.

It wasn’t much of a gift, but it was all that he could afford to give to the Bludovs’ young son, Dobrogost, for his birthday. He wasn’t trying to suck up to his employers, like some of the other servants were. The child, as concerning as his behavior could be, was rather endearing and had grown on him. And the boy didn’t have any friends, so Oleg did the best that he could to keep him company, since his parents hardly had the time and no one else had the desire.

Oleg decided that he’d present the gift once he escorted Dobrogost back to his room after breakfast on the awaited day. 

He asked the child to stay put while he went to fetch something, and then came back a little while later. In place of gift wrapping, Oleg just held the item behind his back instead. He knew that Dobrogost was impatient and would appreciate the fact that he didn’t have to put in any extra effort to get to his present.

“Here you go, little lord,” Oleg said to young Dobrogost, holding the wooden sword out to him. “Happy birthday.”

The red rings near the center of the boy’s uncanny white irises lit up when he beamed at the offering. He took the gift by its painted handle and held it up to admire it. It was nearly as tall as he was, and he had been growing fast for a child his age.

“Wow!” Dobrogost gasped, dragging it over to the largest stuffed animal at the corner of his room. He immediately began using his new toy to assault the poor doll, tearing it to shreds and beating the stuffing out of it while giggling.

Oleg was surprised by the child’s eagerness to destroy his older toys, but he smiled anyway and sat down in a rocking chair, propping his head up on his arm while watching the boy play. He reckoned he could stitch the stuffed animal back together again, once Dobrogost was finished.

It was the boy’s birthday, after all. Why not let him have a little fun? His parents tended to give their son a hard time for merely being a child and doing childish things, so Oleg didn’t mind looking the other way when Dobrogost wanted to get up to a little mischief.

Taking out a pouch of tobacco, Oleg filled up the pipe he retrieved from another coat pocket, but soon realized he had nothing on him to light it with.

“Little lord?” Oleg asked when an idea had occurred to him.

Dobrogost stopped and turned around, lowering his toy sword. “Mmhm?”

“Come here, please.” The boy trotted over to his servant, looking up at him curiously. “You tieflings know a bit of magic, don’t you?”

“I can make fire!” Dobrogost confirmed.

“Would you mind lighting my pipe for me, then?”

“Okay!”

Oleg was careful not to hold his pipe too close to his face while the child reached out and ignited the tobacco with a flame that appeared from the end of his little fingertip. He gave the boy an impressed nod.

“Thank you.” Oleg tousled Dobrogost’s hair. He took a long drag from the stem of his pipe, then turned his head away from the child to blow out the excess smoke, coughing. “You’re a good lad.”

* * *

And now, many years later and in the present, in the depths of the Szarr family crypts, Oleg toiled away at repairing Astarion’s rickety coffin, restoring it to a state better than it was when the elf had originally been lain to rest in it on the night that he was made into a vampire spawn by Cazador.

Though it wasn’t necessary, Oleg decided to give it a decent paint job. After all, a few coats of paint and something to seal it with might help protect the wood from the moist air that permeated the dank catacombs. That would cut down on future maintenance.

Astarion didn’t announce himself right away when he stumbled upon the ghast’s work in progress. Instead, he watched in shock for a moment. It was difficult for him to imagine that anyone would do something nice for him, least of all Lord Bludov’s curmudgeonly servant.

“What are you doing?” the vampire spawn asked, stepping into Oleg’s field of vision. Looking down, he barely recognized his own coffin; it was no longer the moldy old box that he was used to.

“What does it look like?” Oleg grunted, placing the finishing touches on the more decorative aspects of the paint job. His hand wasn’t too steady anymore, but the flaws in the brush strokes were only noticeable up close.

“Were you a carpenter at some point in your life?” Astarion asked, venturing a guess.

“Sort of.” Oleg dipped the tip of the fine-haired brush in his hand into a jar of gold-colored paint, continuing the linework of the border he was drawing.

“Sort of,” Astarion repeated irritably. Whenever he wanted the ghast to be more open with him, he was frustratingly curt, and whenever he wanted him to be curt, he got an entire lecture. Still, he was thankful for Oleg’s generosity. “Well, regardless of your resume, I have to confess that it looks fantastic. Thank you… You didn’t have to do this for me.”

“I know.” The ghast cleaned off the brush in a dirty glass of water, then packed everything up, now that his work was complete for the time being. “Paint should dry in a few hours. After that, try out the new padding inside it. Didn’t have much to stuff it with, but hopefully, it’s comfortable enough. I’ll come back tomorrow to seal the dry paint, so be careful not to chip it.”

The vampire spawn’s jaw hung open. “It’s _padded_ now?”

“Yep.” Oleg gathered up his belongings and stood up.

“Wait! Before you go, there’s something else that I’m curious about,” Astarion said.

“That’s nothing new.”

The elf groaned. “I can’t help that I have an inquisitive mind. Please humor me, if you would.”

“Alright.”

“If you’re so handy, why is your master’s estate such a…”

“Dump?” Oleg chuckled, even as Astarion grimaced at the accurate word he’d chosen.

“Well, you said it, not me.”

“He wants it to fall apart.”

Astarion waited for some sign that the ghast was joking, but one never came. “Are you serious? Why?”

“Bad memories.”

“Why doesn’t he just sell the place and move in here? I’m sure Cazador would be thrilled if he did. My master becomes a total pain in the arse when Lord Bludov isn’t here.” Astarion folded his arms, uncomfortable with what he just said aloud. “Don’t tell Cazador that I said that; he’d be livid.”

“I won’t,” Oleg promised, adjusting the box of tools under his arm before it fell. “To answer your question, I don’t think my master’s ready to put the past behind him yet. Maybe he thinks if the place collapses on its own, he won’t have a choice anymore.” He shrugged. “Dunno.”

“What a strange mindset.”

“People do strange things when they’re heartbroken.”

“Very true…”

“Done with being nosey for now?” Oleg swapped his lantern from one hand to the other. “My arms are getting tired, holding all this shit.”

Astarion laughed. “For now, I am.”

The ghast immediately headed off, taking the elf’s words as a dismissal. “Goodnight, Astarion. Have fun watching paint dry.”

“I just might, actually. Goodnight, Oleg,” the vampire spawn said in return, bowing gracefully.

As soon as the ghast was gone, Astarion knelt beside his renovated coffin. He wanted to touch its smoothed surface, but he reminded himself that the paint was wet. It was beautiful. It even had his name on it, spelled properly. That made him grin. He didn’t think that Oleg was all that literate, and even learned people used to misspell his name often on paperwork during his days as a magistrate.

He couldn’t wait to feel soft padding against his back for a change when he went to sleep later that night. For once, he might rest peacefully, assuming Cazador would grant him enough time for it. It was always his master that got to sleep, but rarely ever him. 

Not that vampires or elves, and especially not vampire elves, truly got to “sleep”. Slumber for them was like an enveloping darkness that left the senses intact. Numbed, but keen enough to detect most disturbances.

However, on the few nights that Astarion would have the pleasure of “sleep”, it was going to be a better experience now compared to the usual routine of laying wide-awake miserably in a wet and rotting crate and hoping that the sunlight hours would go by fast.

For all his faults, Oleg was alright, in Astarion’s book.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "I'm filling the cracks that ran through the door, and kept my mind from wandering where it will go. And it really doesn't matter if I'm wrong. I'm right where I belong."
> 
> Recommended Listening: Fixing a Hole by The Beatles


End file.
